Reinventing a Quartermaine
by OyHumbug
Summary: Jason Quartermaine is in an unhappy marriage, and Elizabeth Webber has just moved to Port Charles. Will they meet, and, if they do, what will happen? AH
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is my new Liason story. With it, you pretty much need to forget everything you know from the show, because Jason and Elizabeth are very different people than what we see on the screen. Although they are both introduced in this first chapter, you'll learn more details about them as the fic progresses. Just to let you know, there are eight chapters, so this is not a very long story. Thanks and enjoy!_

Charlynn

**Reinventing a Quartermaine**

**Chapter One**

**Mullets, Catholics, and Power Bars, Oh My!**

"Tell me something," the natural yet enhanced blonde asked as she breezed into the formal dining room that morning on her non-practical but in vogue stilettos, taking a seat across from him. That was it; there was no preamble to their first conversation of the day. As always, it was business as usual. There were no warm smiles, no pleasant greetings, not even a 'good morning,' and the scariest thing of all was that he expected nothing more. Recapturing his attention, his wife continued. "Is it a prerequisite for all mechanics to have a mullet?"

"What," he mumbled out, almost choking on his bite of scrambled eggs.

"It's a simple concept, Jason. Please follow along."

"I'm sorry," he hastily apologized, wiping the corners of his mouth with the linen napkin resting in his lap, the movement born from both impeccable manners and a well-honed ability to avoid his spouse if even for only a moment. Letting the napkin fall back in place, the thirty-four year old resumed their conversation. "It's just…since when did you start associating with mechanics?"

"Due to Reginald's insubordination, I was not able to procure his services in taking my car for its quarterly tune up. So…"

"You mean you weren't able to blackmail him into doing your dirty work," Jason surmised, laughing softly.

"Do not interrupt me again," his wife snapped, her glare silencing his amusement. "Besides," her ubiquitous fake smile was back in place, "blackmail is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial business arrangement."

Pausing in her story to gather some breakfast, the Quartermaine heir watched as the woman across from him only chose to eat fruit for her first meal of the day, forgoing the eggs, waffles, bacon, sausage, and toast which were also provided for the family to eat. "Aren't you going to have anything else," he asked her pointedly, scowling at her dietary choices.

"Do not start with me this morning. I'm not in the mood. Whenever you allow me to make your decisions for you, then we'll talk about your right to dictate what I do and do not eat. Is that clear?" He didn't respond, never said a word. After all, what purpose would an argument serve when the woman he was married to refused to fight back? "Anyway, as I was saying," she pressed on, "I was forced to take my own car yesterday for its oil change, and every man I saw working there had a mullet."

"I don't know what a mullet is."

"For crying out loud, Jason," his wife exclaimed harshly. "I can't do everything for you. Google it or something, but, for now, quit disrupting me." He waved his hand to insinuate she should continue which she did – animatedly. "I also ruined a new dress."

"Oh." Now this he cared even less about.

"They actually forced me to wait," she exploded, pushing her plate aside as if the fruit piled on it repulsed her or reminded her of the experience she had had at the garage. "I even asked them if they knew who I was, and the man waiting on me simply laughed in my face. So, there I was, surrounded by blue collared workers, grease, grime, and the stench of stale sweat, and I was forced to sit in a plastic chair."

"And how exactly did this ruin your dress?"

"Jason, please," the blonde shrieked, wrinkling her petite nose. "Do you have any idea what kind of people sat in that same chair before I did?"

"Hard working, honest men and women who are actually grateful that the garage provides them with something to sit on instead of whining about it."

She observed him coolly, disdainfully. "I should have known you would never be supportive of me."

"Listen," he sighed, rubbing his face in a futile attempt to ease some of the stress he could feel bubbling up inside of him. "The next time you need your oil changed, just come to me, and I'll do it for you."

"Like you know how to do that," his spouse dismissed, rolling her eyes.

"I do. I taught myself how a couple of years ago."

"Then why haven't you ever offered to change my oil before?"

The thirty-four year old shrugged as if his response was the most obvious one in the world. "You never asked."

"And I'm not going to, because you should not risk injury to your hands like that," she directed him as if he was a child who needed scolding.

"I'm a pediatrician, not a surgeon."

His wife pursed her lips, appraising him. "You could have been."

"Damn it," the doctor swore, throwing his napkin on the table and moving to stand up. "We are not having this conversation again!"

"Sit down, Jason." When he didn't comply, the perfectly groomed blonde lowered her voice and actually snapped her fingers at him. "I said sit back down. Your family will be in here at any moment, and I refuse to allow them to see you acting even more immaturely than your daughter."

"She's seven," he stated. "She's supposed to act childishly."

"Not if we want to get her into a good boarding school."

"That's just it though, _sweetheart_," the husband and father seethed, his words deceptively pleasant, "I don't want my daughter to go to a boarding school."

"Well, as her mother, I decide what's best for her. Besides," his wife pointed out, "you and I both attended boarding schools."

"Exactly."

"Jason," she warned, tilting her head at him in a decidedly disapproving manner.

"Look, we are both her parents which means we have equal say in how our daughter is raised. You want her sent away so you don't have to worry about her any longer, and I want her as close to me as possible so that I won't miss more of her life than I already have. Apparently, we have ourselves a stalemate."

"We will discuss this later," the woman he married decreed, "when we have some more privacy. Now," before he could even blink her mood changed again, going from adversarial to supportive and loving, "I want to discuss your birthday party."

"What birthday party?"

"Jason, what kind of wife would I be if I allowed my husband's thirty-fifth birthday to go by uncelebrated?" Smiling radiantly at him, she explained. "It's going to be a black-tie affair, one of the most important social events of the year, and, if we play our cards right, it could really help you improve your position at the hospital."

Confused, he asked, "why would I need or even want to do that?"

"Your father is not going to be chief of staff forever, and you are the logical next choice for the position. However, because you chose such an… easily forgotten field of medicine, we're going to have to work extra hard to impress the board members. This will be a great opportunity to do just that."

"But I don't want to be chief of staff."

"Of course you do," she corrected him. "I want you to be chief of staff, so, therefore, that is what you want as well." She paused momentarily to take a sip of her tea before continuing. "Anyway, I wanted your opinion on an idea I've been considering. Instead of the guests bringing you a birthday present, I was thinking we would ask them to make a donation to a specific charity in your honor. What do you think?"

Genuine surprise transformed the thirty-four year old's face, making it appear less lined and almost content. "I think that's a wonderful idea."

"The only problem is that I can't decide on a charity."

"Just find one that benefits children," he suggested, grinning widely at the idea. "After all, that would make the most sense, seeing as how I'm a pediatrician. Plus, they're normally the charities I tend to work with most of the time anyway."

"Oh, we can't do that," the mother of his only child gasped in horror. "Children's charities are so not at the height of fashion of right now. We need to support something that aides the environment."

"Don't you think that would somewhat hypocritical seeing as how ELQ has a vested interest in many environmentally unsound businesses?"

"But you're not involved in the company."

"I'm on the board," he reasoned.

"It doesn't matter," she proclaimed. "Do you think I choose the charities I'm involved with based upon their merit?"

"I would think you would choose them because their cause actually meant something to you?"

"Jason, you need to stop living in that idyllic little world of yours; nothing is as cut and dry as you see it. I choose my charities not for what I can do for them but for what they can do for me, for you, for your career, and this party I'm throwing for you will not be any different."

"If you really didn't want my opinion," he questioned her, "why did you ask for it in the first place?"

"Maybe just this once, I was hoping that you could see things my way, but, obviously, that's impossible."

The doctor exhaled a harsh breath. "Just…why don't you ask Riegal about her current favorite animal, and go with a charity…"

"That is the most absurd name I've ever heard!"

"Now, Grandfather," his wife attempted to placate the older man, her tone patronizing. It was always patronizing, Jason realized. "You know why I named my daughter that. I wanted her to be a reminder to the rest of society that the Quartermaines are practically American royalty."

"Do you know, dear," the scheming curmudgeon queried as he sat down at the head of the dining room table, "that if you trace back our family's ancestry, my great, great, great, great grandfather on my father's side was a highly placed member of the British monarchy." Suddenly, his tone became gruff and bitter, "and, if that damn fool wouldn't have run away from home to come to America, I might be the ruler of that country!"

"Not this tired story again, Father," his Aunt Tracy bemoaned as she slid into her appointed seat at the table. "Like anyone in their right mind would allow you to govern an entire nation, especially when," she emphasized her words by pointing the fork poised in her right hand at the balding man, "since you couldn't even run ELQ competently?"

"Don't start with me," Edward warned, wagging a finger at his smirking daughter, "or I'll throw you out of this house!"

"It's my house," the thirty-four year old's mother corrected her father-in-law as she entered the room, "which means you will not decide who can and cannot live here."

Piping up just to get a word in edge wise, Alan added, "I gave it to her," and smiled smugly as his father glowered in his direction.

And, just like every morning, a fight erupted between his family members, and, before he could be unwillingly pulled into another argument with them, Jason slipped out and disappeared, no one even realizing his absence. While he made his way out of the house, gathering his suit coat, winter jacket, briefcase, and keys in the foyer, he couldn't help but think about the people he lived with – his wife, his daughter, his grandfather, his parents, his aunt, his siblings, his cousins. Although he loved them, the only one he knew why he felt that way towards them was his daughter. As for the rest, he assumed it was familial responsibility and duty that made him care. It made him feel suffocated and alone, trapped as if he was just itching to climb out of his own skin, but he knew, as a Quartermaine, nothing would ever change for him.

"Elle," the man she was meeting greeted her, a sour note entering his rich, cultivated voice, "why did you request this location? You're my accountant, not my hit-man."

"It's not Elle," she instructed him, meeting his gaze squarely. "I changed it again."

"Of course you did," he commented disapprovingly. "A new town, a new identity, a new apartment, a new life – every year. I should have known."

And if he didn't wipe the concerned, almost reproachful frown off his tan face, she was going to show him just how hard she could hit…and enjoy it immensely. So what if she didn't like to form roots anywhere? So what if she packed up and moved away from a town as soon as people started to expect things from her besides what she could offer them professionally? So what if she was, as Sonny often accused her, emotionally detached? It was her goddamned life, and she was going to live it however the hell she saw fit. Apparently though, the Cuban did not notice her annoyance.

"So, let's recap, shall we," he suggested rhetorically. "It was Liz in Seattle, Eli in Chicago, Beth in Los Angeles, Lizzie in Dallas, and Elle in Atlanta. What's it going to be now?"

"Elizabeth."

"Going with the real name," the older man teased, quirking his left brow at her. "That's ballsy, Webber."

"Can we please just get to the point," she asked of him. Resting her hands on her shapely hips, she pressed. "I've had a long, stressful week, moving everything up here, and I really don't have the patience for your games. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm about this close," she held two fingers up on her right hand to display the length of an inch, "to choking you with your own tie, so just give me what I'll need to go into work tomorrow."

"You still haven't answered my question though."

Without him having to repeat it, she answered. "I'm staying here, so it was convenient for me to meet you out back."

"You're staying here," Sonny questioned with a note of disbelief in his voice. "At Jake's? You do realize that this isn't the safest part of town, don't you?"

"And I'm no freaking girl scout, Corinthos," she snapped, glaring at her boss. "Besides, it's only temporary until I can find another place."

"What about the Port Charles Hotel?"

"There is no way I'm going to stay at a place that demands their employee's starch their underwear. As for the rest of the seedy dumps in this backwater town you like to consider home," she sighed, glancing around the alley they were standing in, "I think I'm safer here."

"Alright," the mafia boss agreed reluctantly, "but promise me you'll start looking for an apartment tomorrow." Instead of replying, she rolled her eyes. "On second though, I'll ask Lily to handle it."

"Oh, no you don't," Elizabeth contradicted him. "I know exactly what will happen if you do that. I'll end up living right across the hall from you, and, don't get me wrong, I adore your wife and kids, Sonny, but there's no way in hell I want to live next door to you. I'll find an apartment." He narrowed his gaze at her. "Soon," the twenty-eight year old brunette amended her previous statement. "Now, what do you have for me?"

"The usual," the Cuban answered, handing her an expensive, Italian briefcase, "the latest figures and receipts, plus keys to the new gallery."

When Elizabeth had first joined the Corinthos organization right after she had graduated from college with her bachelor's degree in accounting, her boss was using an import/export coffee business to launder his illegal earnings, but she had argued for a change. They needed something fresh, something new, something that the federal government would never expect a high school dropout from Bensonhurst to be involved in. Besides, she had pointed out to her employer, she had no taste for the coffee business both literally and figuratively.

Instead, she had suggested that they start a chain of high-end art galleries. After he had purchased the building, using a subsidiary company of a subsidiary company of a subsidiary company owned by someone other than Michael "Sonny" Corinthos, she would move in, develop the legal portion of the business, court new, upcoming artists, and, after a year, leave someone else in charge while she went off and started the process all over again. Not only had the idea been a good one for the organization, but it was also something she could be proud of, something she could take pleasure from. While she might have majored in accounting for practical reasons, she had always loved art and was herself an aspiring artist…not that her boss knew anything about that portion of her life. Her paintings were personal, private, and, most importantly, her retreat from the rest of the world.

"Good," she responded, taking the briefcase from him. "And I started scouting local talent while I was still in Atlanta, so I should hopefully have the gallery up and running in about three months' time."

"Sounds great, Elizabeth."

"Is there anything else then?"

"Actually, yes," the Cuban responded, grinning to show off his dimples. "Lily wanted me to talk to you about coming over for dinner one night."

"Sonny," the young woman grumbled. She knew she sounded like one of his children, but she didn't really care. "You know how much I hate things like that. You'll want me to wear a dress, and, because your kids will be there, I won't be able to swear."

"The sacrifices I ask you to make in the name of friendship," he gasped in mock horror. "We'll discuss this later," he stated leaving no room for argument. "As for now though, you're off the hook. If I don't leave immediately, I'll be late for Wednesday night mass. I'll see you tomorrow."

As her employer made his way to his black limo, she called after him, "say hi to the castrates for me!" Although he didn't say anything, the mob boss did look over his shoulder at her reproachfully before climbing into the car and disappearing into the night. "Damn Catholics," Elizabeth cursed, stomping her foot before heading towards the back entrance of the bar. "They do not have a sense of humor!"

It was the one difference she and her boss often butted heads about. He was a crime lord with a strong moral code – can he say oxymoron – and she was a brash, modern woman who flaunted many of society's tried and true tenets. She lived by her own rules, and, if anyone didn't like it, well, in her book, they could just fuck off. And she wasn't afraid of telling them that either.

_Doctor, excuse me, but you do have a separate waiting room, one for, well you know, those of us who can afford to purchase our own health insurance instead of relying upon their boss to provide it for them?_

Slamming his car door shut, Jason gunned the engine of his car – well as much as you could gun the engine of an Audi sedan chosen for its high safety standards – peeling out of the hospital parking lot.

_What do you mean my little Cassandra has lice, Doctor Quartermaine? That's impossible! She goes to a private academy._

Swearing and ignoring the law, he passed an elderly woman driving in front of him. Even though she was following the suggested speed limit, he needed to go faster; he needed to forget the horrible day he had just had at work, and the only way he could think to do that was to drive so fast he could focus on nothing else but the lines down the middle of the road and the cold wind blowing into his face from his opened driver side window.

_Do have another suggestion, Doctor, because my husband and I, we can't afford this medicine you've prescribed?_

Still not satisfied, he pressed down on the accelerator and watched his car's speedometer as it rounded eighty and continued to climb higher and higher. However, driving recklessly was not giving him the rush of adrenaline and escape he craved.

_You might as well go home, Doctor, because I had to send away the rest of your patients. They didn't have any medical insurance._

He understood that General Hospital was a business and that it had to operate as such so that it could make money and stay open, but he had gone into medicine thinking he could make a difference. With all the money he stood to inherit from his family, there was absolutely no reason for him to become a doctor for monetary reasons, and, because he enjoyed children, he had chosen pediatrics as his specialty, but the longer he worked in his field, the more he realized that those who needed his help the most, the poor, the uninsured, the oppressed, the very people his wife had mourned having to share a seat with, would never benefit from his medical training as long as he remained at the hospital his family partially owned and directed. It was frustrating and yet just something else that made him feel as if he didn't even recognize the man he had become over the years.

By the time he got home, it was time for dinner which meant another meal with the quarrelling Quartermaines. Slowly, precisely, he unbuttoned his winter coat, stripped off his leather gloves, and unwound his cashmere scarf, putting everything away in the closet instead of waiting for one of the help do it for him. Still not ready to face his family, he carried his briefcase up to the bedroom he did not share with his wife, put some papers away in his desk, and hung up both the suit jacket and the tie he had worn that day. He knew it was expected of him to dress formally for dinner, but he just didn't have the patience for it that night, and, dressed in an outfit deemed appropriate by his spouse, he felt as if he couldn't breathe, so he made himself as comfortable as he could given the situation. When he couldn't delay it any longer, he made his way towards the dining room where he found everyone talking at once and his daughter missing.

"I have no idea why you haven't fired Cook yet, Monica," Edward complained, punctuating his tirade by pounding a closed fist on top of the table. "I expressly ordered her to not make salmon again this month!"

"I know," his mother gloated gleefully, smiling at the older man while taking a dainty bite of her entrée. "And that's exactly why she's still employed here."

"Well, I cannot believe that the mayor's wife was elected president of the garden club that Mother founded," Tracy objected. Her eyes were sparking with anger, and Jason feared the crystal goblet in her hand would shatter with the force in which she was holding it. "She is unfit to hold that position."

Agreeing with the older woman, his wife added, "she's not even a blueblood. The only reason why some of the women voted for her was because of her husband."

"That incompetent fool," the old man muttered under his voice but no one paid any attention.

"A.J." Alan spoke up for the first time. "Don't you think you've had enough to drink?"

"Of course not," Edward sniped, glaring at his grandson. "Why shouldn't he go through a bottle of vodka every night at dinner?" Pointing an accusing finger at his son and daughter-in-law, the family patriarch continued. "If you two wouldn't have been such absent parents, only showing up to coddle him, maybe he wouldn't be a drunk today."

"Do not insult my parenting skills," Monica warned the older man. "I've heard too many stories from Alan and Lila to allow you to pretend you were any better than we were."

"Oh, balderdash, my children turned out fine."

"Your son was once addicted to pain pills, and…"

"Hey," Alan complained, glaring at his wife. "You're supposed to be on my side."

But his mother just ignored her husband. "And your daughter," she pressed, turning to face Tracy, "is the coldest, most manipulative woman I've ever met. No one likes her, not even her own family."

"What is the matter with you," the woman in questioned yelled, throwing up her hands in frustration. "I voted for you today at the garden club meeting."

"Did you think that would magically erase all the years of hatred between us," Monica questioned her sister-in-law. "You only voted for me because I was the lesser of two evils. If anything, you think that you should be president."

"Oh, here we go," Ned joined the melee, laughing at everyone around him. "Five hundred dollars says someone walks away from the table with a black eye."

"I'll take that action," A.J. agreed, sloshing some of his vodka out of his glass as he raised it to salute his cousin.

"Do you really think you're in the right condition to be gambling, Junior?"

"Why the hell not," Jason's brother shouted over both his mother's and his aunt's slinging barbs. "Besides, you're wrong, Ned. They're not going to throw punches; they'll go for the hair."

And just like that, he snapped. Raising his voice to a pitch louder than everyone else's and standing up from his seat, he asked calmly yet with force, "where is my daughter?"

And just like that morning, his wife scowled at him and spoke as if she was his mother and not the woman he had married, repeating her same words from earlier. "Sit down, Jason." He didn't listen. "She's having her first appointment with her physical trainer this evening."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, if she refuses to take responsibility for herself, than I will have to do it for her. It's high time she lost her baby fat. How can you expect me to start entering her in beauty pageants if the other girls call her chubby behind her back?"

"Fighting childhood obesity at a young age is important, son," Alan added in, ever the doctor.

"She's just a little girl, and she's not chubby! As her doctor, I should know. In both height and weight, she measures average for her age group."

"But that's just it, Jason," his wife contended, her tone ripe with hostility. "I don't want just an average daughter; I want a better one."

He had no idea what to say to that, how to prove to her that their child was perfect as she was, and, without the strength to argue, he simply left. He strode out of the dining room despite the calls from his family to 'return immediately or else, young man,' found his keys off the sideboard table in the foyer, and walked out the front door, not even bothering to shut it. He couldn't be there with them, with his family. He needed to find a place where he could relax, where he could breathe, where he could just be. The only problem was, he had no idea where to find such an oasis, but he sure as hell was going to try.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Sorry it took me so long to post this second chapter. Besides working on this special edition Halloween Flash Fic Challenge, I've also recently bought a new car (I hate that process) and have been cheering my beloved Red Sox into the World Series. (Can I hear it for the rookies? ) Anyway, before we get to the next chapter, I have a couple of comments for you. First of all, I'm not going to reveal the identity of Jason's wife for a while. Not only does this add to the mystery, but I don't want her to be judged by any preconceived notions you may have about her. Secondly, I'm so excited for Elizabeth's character in this story, so I'm thrilled you're intrigued her personality and background, too. Thanks for reading and responding, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as well._

Charlynn 

**Chapter Two**

**The Sincerest Form of Flattery**

Although Elizabeth Webber did not consider herself a real artist, she was what she herself might call an art enthusiast, a person who dabbled in various mediums for the sheer pleasure of dabbling. However, unlike the other painters she was associated with due to her job, she did not look for inspiration in the usual places. Things of beauty, things of reverence, things of grace and nostalgia could not hold her interest long enough for the petite brunette to complete a quick sketch. Instead, she preferred her subjects to be real, hard working, and rough around the edges. The more flaws they had, the more vices, the better. After all, she was a firm believer in the idea that those rather unsavory qualities a person tended to hide from their peers were the ones that truly made them interesting.

And that was the very reason why she found herself in Jake's bar later that evening instead of resting up in her room or searching the net for apartments. Bored and needing to relax and lose herself in her art, she was perched in a dark and obscure corner at the back of the smoky bar. Nursing a beer, she watched the various dock laborers and factory workers as they played pool, threw darts, or simply argued sports. Loud or quiet, tall or short, hefty or frail, they all interested her, because she knew each and every person there hid a story under their rough exterior, a story she could imagine for herself and bring to life on canvas.

With so many options, she sat, pencil tip sharpened and positioned just above the crisp white paper of her sketchbook, trying to determine who her subject would be for the evening. Just as she had it narrowed down between a silently brooding, obviously married ship captain who was simply sitting in his booth and staring into his mug of beer as if it held the answers to the universe and a fresh faced youth who was seemingly out with the guys from work for the first time, a newcomer sauntered into the bar. Elizabeth didn't even have to look at the man to realize he didn't belong at the waterfront establishment; the immediate hush that fell upon the crowd and the palpable shift in the atmosphere alerted her to a presence unfamiliar to the local dive, and, immediately, she was curious.

"Excuse me," the tall, blonde, apparent professional greeted the bartender. As soon as the stranger uttered those two words, the no-nonsense woman behind the counter started to smirk. "May I please have something to drink?"

"You have money?" The man wearing the formal clothes and attracting all sorts of attention he obviously did not need nodded his head profusely. "Then you can have anything you want," the bartender agreed. "What can I getcha?"

And, just like that, the newcomer's bravado and confidence evaporated. "Well, I really don't know. What do people normally order when they want to get drunk?"

"That depends upon their taste."

The recently arrived customer thought on that for several moments, and, during that time, Elizabeth took the opportunity to really observe him. His hair was well-groomed, recently trimmed, his face, though soft from a lack of exposure to the natural elements, did bear lines of stress and worry, and his features were decidedly aristocratic in nature. Piercing blue eyes drew her attention to his expressive gaze, a gaze that bespoke of frustration, pain, and anger, but it didn't remain there long. Instead, she became aware of his nose, slightly crooked probably from a childhood break, his lips, rather full for a man's and definitely enticing, and his jaw, strong and simply begging for attention. From there, she noticed his muscular frame – the man was built, and he knew it. From his broad shoulders, to his washboard flat stomach, to his corded and powerful thighs, just looking at him caused attraction to pique her interest and send waves of desire coursing through her.

The clearing of the stranger's throat brought her attention back to his conversation with the bartender. "Do you happen to know A.J. Quartermaine?"

"Of course I do," the woman the accountant had learned earlier that evening was named Jake replied. "Any establishment within a fifty mile radius of Port Charles that serves alcohol knows A.J. Quartermaine." Becoming suspicious, the blonde narrowed her gaze towards her customer. "Why do you ask?"

"Just give me whatever he would order, and make it a large, please."

There were snickers up and down the bar, and the proprietor shook her head in complete disbelief. "You don't order a drink like that. Quartermaine drinks straight vodka. Most of the time he just buys an entire bottle and disappears into a corner booth to be by himself."

"I'll take it," the new arrival stated, reaching for and pulling out his wallet before Jake could argue. "Do you have change for a hundred?"

Now that inquiry definitely made the others in the bar turn and stare at the obviously wealthy man. At that moment, Elizabeth knew he was in trouble, and damn it if she didn't feel the need to help the clueless guy out.

"Are you sure that's what you want," the bartender asked him one last time. "I'm pretty sure you don't do this a lot, and not too many people can drink as much as A.J. Quartermaine can and still be upright by the end of the night."

"I'll be alright," the stranger assured her, handing her the previously mention one hundred dollar bill. "Keep the change…for your troubles," he suggested before taking possession of his purchased bottle of liquor and pivoting around to search through the haze always present at the dive bar to locate an empty table. Before he could take a step away from the counter though, the hustlers were upon him.

Standing, Elizabeth threw her sketchbook down, huffed in impatience, and slowly made her way across the dusty wooden floor. She could hear men on either side of the blonde offering to play him at pool, at darts, to help him pick the ponies for the race later that evening. When the newcomer started to turn the men and their _oh so generous _offers down, the dock laborers and the factory workers started to get mad, to push the wealthy patron around, to threaten him, and that's when she made her move.

"I think I saw that man's picture in the paper a couple of weeks ago," she whispered to a brute, there really was no other word to describe him, she knew Sonny employed at one of his lakefront warehouses. "I think he's an undercover cop."

Her word of warning passed through the crowd in mere seconds, and, as the horde dispersed back to their previous activities, she received more than one nod of acceptance and many smiles of appreciation. Satisfied the stranger was safe…for the moment, she approached him, glaring, and grabbed hold of his arm, pulling him back to her table.

"What the hell do you think you're doing coming here dressed like that, claiming to know one of the richest men in the state, and tossing around Ben Franklins as if you used them to line the walls of your attic?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you…or anyone else, for that matter, but what exactly did I do wrong? This is a public place, so I have just as much right to be here as you or anyone else does."

"Of course you have a right to be here," she snapped, collapsing down upon her seat with a huff of aggravation, "but that doesn't mean you need to exercise said right. The men who come here like this place because they can escape from guys like you."

"Guys like me?"

"Rich guys, the ones who are in charge and keeping them down, the elite," Elizabeth explained.

Before her eyes, the newly arrived blonde crumbled. Without warning, he opened the seal to the bottle of vodka he had purchased, unscrewed the cap, and took a large, cough inducing gulp of the fiery liquid. "I'm sorry," he apologized once again.

"It's alright, quit apologizing already. I don't want you sorry; I just want you to think the next time before you do something stupid like coming to Jake's dressed in Armani."

After several deep, stomach burning drinks of liquid courage, he started talking. "You don't look like you belong here either."

"Yeah, well, I do, and, even if I didn't," she dismissed his concerns, "the guys here know not to mess with me."

He chuckled at that. After she went out of her way to save his ass, he had the gall to laugh at her. Annoyed with the stranger's reaction to her comment, she glowered at him. "What," he finally asked after regaining his ability to speak, "do you have a protector or something?"

"Yeah, I do, two protectors actually. Their names are Smith and Wesson. Would you like to meet them?"

The blonde's eyes widened at her statement. "You…carry a gun?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Fuck American Express. I never leave home with my 9MM."

"Do you have it now?"

"It's tucked into the back of my pants, already loaded."

The out of place patron digested that information while drinking his vodka at a continual pace, quickly getting himself inebriated. Realizing he was done talking for the moment, she went back to her sketch, finally deciding to use the stranger across from her as her subject for the evening. He was so lost in his own thoughts, he never noticed her intense scrutiny. Finally, after half of the bottle was finished and forty-five minutes had passed, he started speaking again.

"Do you ever feel as if no one understands you?" She nodded, and the gesture seemed to appease him. "Me, too," he mourned, slouching down in his seat. "I go to work, I do everything they tell me to do, never once even thinking about fighting their wishes, but it's never enough; I'm never enough. When do I get to make my own decisions? When do I get to decide what's best for me?"

"Most people reach that stage in their lives when they turn eighteen," the brunette mumbled under her breath.

"Not me," the tall, muscular man across from her lamented. He had heard her sarcastic response, but, apparently, the sarcasm was lost upon him. "When I was eighteen, I started college. I went to the school my parents picked out for me, I majored in the field they chose for me, and I even dated girls they deemed appropriate and suitable for a man of my reputation and breeding."

"Sounds like you like to live life on the edge," Elizabeth taunted, never once looking up from her sketch as she added in the various nuances and imperfections that dotted the stranger's faces, making sure she included every blemish, every scar, every stress induced line.

"I hate what I've become, whom I've become."

Now that made her glance up to meet his unsteady, glassy gaze. "Listen," she directed, tossing aside her sketchbook. "I get where you're coming from, but no one made you stay; no one forced you to do as your family wanted. Is it hard to break free from their control, absolutely, but, if I can do it, so can you."

"How?"

The accountant shrugged, wrinkling her brow and tossing up her small hands in disappointment. "I don't know. Everybody's different; everybody has to find their own way out. Me, I just left," she shared, surprising herself with the level of candor she was displaying in front of a man she had never met before and, in all likelihood, would never see again. "As soon as I turned eighteen, I packed by bags, bought a bus ticket that would take me as far away from my family as I could get, and I made a new life for myself. Was it hard? Did I wake up some days and think that I would never make it? You can bet your damn ass I did, but I never gave up, I never gave in, and I sure as hell never went crawling back to Mommy and Daddy. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me fail. And, now, nine years later, here I am – successful, independent, and out from underneath my family's controlling thumb."

"I could do that," he exclaimed excitedly, standing up and pushing his chair back in one uncoordinated movement.

"Of course you can," Elizabeth agreed with him.

"And I'm going to start now," the stranger stated with unwavering conviction. He managed to take just one step away from their table before he started to trip over his own feet.

"God damn it," the younger woman swore, rushing to stand and wrapping a steadying arm around the blue eyed, blonde man.

"What, what is," he demanded to know, his concerned gaze meeting hers. "Did your gun go off?"

"No," she reassured him. Chastising herself for getting into the mess she was currently drowning in, she helped the wealthy man to the back stairs. "Don't you think you would have heard it if my gun had gone off?"

"Not if you had a quieter…thingy attached to it."

"It's called a silencer."

"Oh," the stranger mumbled while mulling over her correction. "Same difference," he finally shrugged as they ascended the stairs several moments later. It wasn't until they reached the second story, that he inquired, "where are we going?"

"You're going to sleep, and I'm going to hit my head against the wall a few hundred times," Elizabeth supplied. "Does that sound good to you?"

"Sleep, oh yeah," he groaned in appreciation, quickening his steps. "That sounds really, really nice. Man," he confided, "I'm exhausted. I feel as if I could sleep for a week."

"Try staying in my bed that long and I'll shoot your lazy ass to wake you up."

Evidently, the drunken man didn't hear her. "You're pretty awesome, do you know that?" Helping him through her doorway and into the bed, Elizabeth didn't answer, and he finally stopped talking. The lights were turned off, the covers drawn up over the stranger, and she was in the armchair watching the night sky when the stranger's voice captured her attention once again. "Be careful."

"I already told you; I can take care of myself."

"No," he argued with her, "with your head. Don't hit it too hard. I'm a doctor, so I know these things."

"Thanks for the advice," Elizabeth blandly offered.

Within moments, the physician was snoring in her bed, passed out drunk, while she silently raged to herself. She knew better than to get involved in someone else's life, to actually show compassion, but did she listen to her own instincts? Of course not! And where did her rather unfortunate sympathy land her? With a wealthy, family obsessed doctor – the exact thing she was trying to escape from.

Elizabeth Webber could remember growing up as a child and believing that turning thirty would be just about the worst thing ever. To five year old Lizzie, thirty meant old, boring, and dull, but, as the adult version of Lizzie quickly approached the start of her forth decade, the accountant realized life was still full of surprises and new experiences. Staid she was most definitely not.

Take, for example, that morning. After a near restless night in an old arm chair, she awoke at six-thirty a.m. on the dot, as always, to the horrible sight of a drunken stranger sleeping in her bed, and the worst part was that she had not even gotten lucky out of the situation. She had showered, dressed, and prepared for the day ahead of her, while, all the while, contemplating the best way to wake the slumbering giant.

Clearing her throat in an annoyed manner didn't faze him at all, despite the fact that her room was as silent as a funeral parlor while it was closed. (How she knew that fact, well, to put it bluntly, working for the mafia had both its advantages and its disadvantages. This particular experience belonged in the latter category.)

Next, she tried to kick the bed, hoping the jarring movement would rouse the blonde who, upon closer inspection, she realized had drooled all over her new pillow, but all it did was make him roll over onto his stomach, emit a loud snore, and become even more difficult to wake.

Elizabeth, at that point, sat back down in her uncomfortable recliner and started talking at a rather loud pitch, pleading with and then eventually yelling at the wealthy doctor to get his lethargic ass out of her bed. Either the vodka from the night before had impaired his hearing or she was losing her touch, because he never budged. Desperate, she contemplated the childish yet ultimately fun trick involving shaving cream, a feather, and near comatose victim but decided against it because she really didn't want to wash her sheets again for the second time in as many days.

With nothing else to do, she stood up, filled the glass she kept by her bedside with cold water, and proceeded to dump it upon her unwelcome guest's face. It worked, the stranger got up, and, before she could even offer an insincere apology for her rude actions, he was firmly ensconced in her bathroom and showering, so she slipped out of the rented room to find them some food. Despite his stomach's protests, she knew the doctor would need food to help get him through the day. After all, there was still a ton of vodka in his system that needed absorbed, and, even if he didn't need sustenance, she was starving and in the mood for a steak sandwich. Fifteen minutes later and mission accomplished, the brunette returned to find her friend/pain in the ass redressed in his clothes from the night before and waiting for her.

"You didn't have an extra toothbrush."

"I live above a bar. What the hell were you expecting?" After a silent beat, she cocked her head towards him in an accusing manner. "You didn't use mine, did you?"

"No, I put some toothpaste on my finger and did the best I could with that. I'll really brush them later at home before I go into work."

"No need."

She could tell by the grimace on his face that he was more than hung over; he was also confused by her statement. "What do you mean? Of course I have to go to work."

"Actually, no, you don't," Elizabeth contended, handing him his sandwich. "Quick, eat up before it gets cold." Taking a bite of her own, she chewed for a moment before continuing. "While you were showering, I checked the contacts list in your phone, dialed the one labeled work, and called you off for the day."

"You did what?"

"Listen, I know that bathroom has bad ventilation so the mirror gets pretty steamed over, but surely you got a good look at yourself at one point while you were in there. You look like hell, and, after living it up like a Russian last night, you probably feel like hell, too. Besides, didn't you decide to change your life?"

"I did?"

"Yeah," she nodded in response while taking another bite. The accountant wasn't going to say more than that though, because, if he couldn't remember their conversation and, more importantly, her part in it from the night before, that was perfectly alright in her book.

Apparently satisfied with her response, the doctor changed the subject. Holding up his sandwich, he asked, "what is this?"

"It's a steak sandwich. Most places won't sell them this early in the morning, but, before I got here, I had my boss arrange for it with one of the local delis. Go ahead," she encouraged him, "try it. I know it's not gourmet or anything, but it has all your important food groups – meat, carbs, vegetables, dairy, and grease. Oh," she added after second thought, reaching into her coat pocket and tossing him a candy bar. "I got us dessert, too."

The man was flabbergasted, practically speechless. "What time is it? How late did I sleep?"

Elizabeth glanced at her watch. "It's a quarter to eight, which means, if I want to be at work on time, you need to hurry your ass up."

"At night?"

"What do you mean at night," she questioned his inquiry. "Are you still drunk?"

"No, I'm not still drunk. On death's door, I think, but not still drunk. What I meant was - is it a quarter to eight…as in p.m.?"

"Try a.m.."

"Oh." The stranger contemplated this for several seconds. "Then why the hell are we eating steak? Do you have something against breakfast?"

The accountant shrugged. "I don't like it." Finishing her sandwich, she tossed the wrappings in the trash before standing and gathering her things to leave again. "Are you always this chatty when you're hung over? I know that when I wake up after a bender, I usually try to remain as quiet as possible at least until the pain in my head is downgraded from a migraine to just a regular headache."

The wealthy blonde stood, fidgeted with his sandwich before finally deciding to simply hold on to it, and attempted to explain himself. "I'm just…this is all sort of new to me. I've never done this before."

"What, drink?"

"No, I've been drunk before. What I'm talking about is this." He motioned between them.

"Oh, well this," Elizabeth mimicked his gesture, "didn't happen. You stuck your foot in it, I bailed your dumb ass out of trouble, you got drunk, talked my freaking ear off all night, and then I dragged you up here last night to sleep it off while I took the chair."

"I'm sorry," he hastily apologized.

"What did I tell you last night?"

"Honestly," he told her, shrugging his shoulders in exasperation, "I have no idea."

"I don't want you sorry. Just…think before you act next time, alright?"

"I can do that," he agreed with a small grin. "As for helping me out, thank you, I owe you one."

"No, you don't," the brunette found herself, albeit unexpectedly, assuring him. "It was a new experience, a learning one," she reasoned. "If nothing else, I think that makes us even, …" She left the statement open ended, waiting for him to supply his name.

"Jason," the doctor answered, holding out his hand for her to shake, "Jason Quartermaine."

"Elizabeth Webber." Letting go of his hand, she motioned with her head towards the door, and they walked out of the room together. "So, I guess I'll see you around?"

"Maybe," he offered, "but I don't think I'll be coming back here anytime soon. A little bit of last night, I think the part before I started drinking, is starting to come back to me, and I'm not sure if this is the best bar in town for me to become a regular at."

"Probably not, especially since I made everyone think you were an undercover cop." He laughed at her comment. "But, if you ever need someone to talk to…or just listen, I'll be around, and there's always the back door."

As they approached the exit, they went in separate directions, Jason towards the front of the building where his car was parked and Elizabeth towards the back where her own was. "I'll keep that in mind," he promised, referring to her offer. "And thanks again."

"I'd say anytime, but," the accountant laughed, teasing him, "you know, I wouldn't mean it."

With one last chuckle, the blonde doctor disappeared, leaving her alone with her thoughts, and Elizabeth realized the scary thing was that she actually did kind of mean it. The idea was an unexpected and unwelcome complication.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Just as his hang over had started to go away, there was his wife to make it all come rushing back at him with a vengeance. As Jason stepped into his bedroom, the blonde he was married to was waiting for him, nail file in hand as she worked on her manicure. "I was going to change my clothes, but I guess that will have to wait until after you've finished lecturing me. What did I do this time?"

"You called off from work," she answered as if it was obvious.

"Actually, no I didn't. A friend of mine did it for me, because, unlike my wife, she was worried about me."

"Jason," his spouse beseeched him, "can we deal with one issue at a time, please. Focus. It's no wonder you're not more successful." Sighing impatiently, she continued. "Calling off does not reflect back positively upon your career, especially when you do so with little notice and when we're fighting an uphill battle because of your less than stellar specialty. If we want you to become chief…"

"But that's just it," Jason interrupted her. "How many times do I have to say it? I don't want to be chief of staff! As for not going into work today, trust me, my patients wouldn't want me there. I'm hung over and in no shape to be practicing medicine."

"No wonder you look like you just crawled out of a gutter." Wrinkling her nose, his wife pressed, "you smell like it, too."

"I showered."

"Well then the stench must be permanently embedded in your clothes. Have Reginald burn them," she instructed. Standing up, the blonde made her way towards his bedroom door.

"That's it," the pediatrician demanded. "You're not going to ask me where I've been or who I've been with?"

"Isn't it obvious," the mother of his only child asked rhetorically. "You went out, you got drunk, and you had a one night stand. It's not a novel occurrence, Jason, especially in our world. All I ask is that you be discreet. I don't want my reputation tarnished or your career hindered by your libido."

"So it wouldn't bother you if I had an affair?"

"Of course not. In fact, I'm quite surprised you haven't already. After all, how long has it been since we were actually intimate," his wife wondered out loud. "Four, five years?"

"Seven."

"Oh, that's right, since I found out I was pregnant with Riegel." With the recollection, the blonde laughed softly. "Don't be late for dinner, dear," she advised her husband as she made her way to leave his room. "The family missed you last night, so they'll expect you to be on time and to remain for the entire meal."

"Just to let you know," Jason stopped her. "I didn't cheat on you. I simply slept it off at a friend's place."

Slowly, his spouse turned around to regard him closely. "Maybe you haven't cheated on me yet," she accepted, "but you will eventually. It could be next week, next month, or it could even be years from now, but you will, and that's okay." With a piercing glare, she warned him, "just remember what I said about discretion. It's all I ask."

With that, she departed, closing the door softly behind her and leaving him alone. There were too many thoughts and even more questions swirling around in Jason's mind to allow him to focus on any one thing in particular, and, needing clarity, needing the understanding he had found in the company of one slightly rude and rather prickly brunette's presence, he picked up his cell phone and dialed for information.

"Jake's, please," he requested of the operator.

Moments later, a raspy female voice he recognized from the night before picked up the other line. _"Yeah?"_

"Is this Jake's?"

"_The last time I checked," _the bartender snapped through the phone lines, obviously in a rather sour mood. _"What do you want?"_

"Can I please speak with Elizabeth?"

"_Webber?"_

Surprising himself, the doctor antagonized the dive's owner. "Is there more than one Elizabeth who lives there?"

"_She's not here," _Jake barked out in response. _"Do you want to leave her a message?"_

"Can you just tell her that Jason called, please, and ask her to call me back?"

"_Whatever you want."_

The next thing he heard was the dial tone buzzing in his ear, so the blonde hung up his phone, placed it on his nightstand, and got undressed. Crawling into bed, he sighed in comfort and fell asleep almost immediately, a smile on his face for the first time in what felt like years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**And Your Wish Will Come True**

In the past two weeks, Jason Quartermaine had experienced many firsts in his life – his first foray into reckless driving, his first real conversation with his wife, his first contemplation of adultery, and, as he sat in front of Elizabeth Webber's room at _Jake's_ on the floor with nothing to shield his clothes from the many layers of dirt and… other less than pleasant things caked into the old carpet, he realized what he was doing was another first. He was waiting for someone else, shamelessly, unapologetically, a someone else he had met during a drunken bender at the dive bar, another first for the pediatrician, a someone else who may or may not even want to see him again. His messages had either gone ignored by the bar owner or Elizabeth had simply chosen not to return his calls as he had asked her to, but, whatever the reason for her lack of communication with him, he needed to talk to her.

It had been a week since they had met, and he was slowly going crazy. He couldn't get the brunette out of his mind. He thought about her, imagined conversations he wanted to have with her, and dreamt of doing things with her that would not fit under the conversation guidelines. Although the dreams were pleasant, they did not afford him very much restful sleep, so, on top of what he could only call a crush, he was also suffering from exhaustion, the dark circles ringing his crystal clear blue eyes a testament to the seven nights of tossing and turning he had endured since meeting the gun toting, attitude dispensing pixie of a woman at that very same bar.

In fact, he was so tired that leaning against the wooden door to Elizabeth's room was the closest thing to feeling relaxed and comfortable that he had been able to manage that entire week. He truly was pathetic, but, feeling alive for the first time in years, he really didn't care. Exhaustion and, more importantly, desire were two things he much preferred experiencing over numbness and indifference. Just as he was about to give in to his physical weariness, his eyes drooping closed, he heard quick, determined steps coming up the stairs, and, once the person, whoever they were, reached the second floor hallway, they continued in his direction. Hoping it was Elizabeth but unwilling to face his disappointment if it wasn't, Jason simply kept his gaze downcast and waited.

"You look like hell." With that, he smiled. She was definitely back from wherever she had been. "Get up," she ordered, kicking his foot before straddling his legs to stand before her door and unlock it. Once the bolt had been turned, she stepped aside and waited for him to follow her instructions which he did readily before following her into her room. "Why are you here," Elizabeth demanded to know while, at the same time, slamming the door shut and startling him.

"Why didn't you return my phone calls?"

The brunette shrugged, unrepentant before toeing off her boots and collapsing in a tired heap upon the bed, never once inviting him to take a seat or offering him any refreshments. Oddly, he found her lack of social decorum to be invigorating and an agreeable change from what he was used to. "I've been busy. Relocating tends to do that for a person. Besides, I needed to make sure you really thought about this."

Not understanding what she meant, he pressed. "This? What exactly are you talking about?"

"This," Elizabeth reiterated, motioning between them, "you and I. The night I met you, you were obviously upset about something, and then you got drunk. Those two things do not lend themselves to good decision making, and, before this went any further, whatever it may be, I needed to know that you fully comprehended what you were doing, what you stood to lose."

"And that would be?"

"I'm not naïve, Jason," the younger woman stated, speaking frankly. "If you think that you're the first married man I ever…"

"Wait a minute," he stopped her, needing more clarification. "How do you know that I'm married?"

She rolled her eyes. "Hold up your left hand; look at it. Now, count your fingers starting from the left," Elizabeth instructed patiently, almost patronizingly. "One, two," she guided him, stopping at the second numeral. "Now pause and take a look at the base of your second finger. What do you find?"

Exasperatedly, he replied, "my wedding band." Sighing, Jason asked, "why didn't you just say so; why the big, acerbic production?"

"Because, obviously, one of us forgot about that little ring on your hand, and, just to simplify the matter, it wasn't me."

"Alright, so I'm married…"

"And you have a daughter, too."

That the doctor had not been expecting. "I told you about my daughter?"

"You were drunk," Elizabeth reasoned, standing up from the bed to approach him. "You told me a lot of things."

"Such as?"

"Such as you and your wife named your kid Riegal." Laughing softly, she teased him, "were you, by chance, drunk then, too?"

"No, that had nothing to do with me. I hate my daughter's name, and, when it's just the two of us, I call her by her middle name."

"Sydney, right," Elizabeth double checked her memory, "named after the city in which she was conceived?" He simply nodded his head yes, and she turned away from him to approach and look out the only window in the room. "Really, when I think about it, I'm not too surprised by her first name. Self centered women of society tend to use their children to gratify their own egos, and what better way to do so than to give one's daughter a name that reflects royalty?"

At her melancholy tone, Jason crossed the room to stand behind her, surprising both of them when he raised his hands to rest companionably upon her shoulders. "You sound like you know the type?" As soon as the words left his mouth, words he felt were rather innocent in nature, he felt her tense and mentally pull away from him.

"I run art galleries," the brunette explained. "I know every type, including," she added, twisting her head around to glance in his direction, "bored husbands who aren't happy in their marriages."

"It's more than that, and you know it."

"I do," she acknowledged, lifting his hands one by one from her shoulders and removing them.

"So then why are you constantly putting distance between us?"

"Because, Jason," she sighed, shrugging her arms and allowing them to fall down and slap her jean covered thighs, "I don't know what I want from you. You're a complication in my life, a very attractive one, but a complication nonetheless, and I still haven't decided if being your friend is worth it."

Smirking, he reached for her only to be denied. Still undeterred, he wondered out loud, "what about your more than friend?"

"An even bigger complication… for the both of us."

"So…"

"So," she repeated. He could see it in her eyes that she was contemplating their situation. "We'll see. I need to think about a few things."

"Well, in the meantime, can I take you out for dinner tonight?"

"No."

"What about drinks," he suggested, unwilling to leave her alone until he knew he at least had a chance.

"I think you've had enough to drink for a while, don't you," Elizabeth taunted. "No, tonight," she practically ordered, "you're going to go home, and I'm going to stay here in my room – alone. However," the brunette held up her hand to stop him before he could even offer up a protest, "next week I'm going apartment hunting, and, since you've obviously lived in Port Charles for a while, you should come with me… to give me your advice."

"I can do that," he agreed. "When?"

"I'll let you know more when I do," she promised, ushering him towards the door. By the time he was outside her room and back in the hallway, their conversation was over and she had officially, by shutting the door in his face, told him goodnight without muttering a single word. It wasn't what he had wanted when he sought her out that evening, but Jason Quartermaine, at that point, would take whatever she was willing to give him, even if that was shopping.

"So, what do you think?"

After asking the realtor for a few minutes alone with her friend, Elizabeth was curious to hear what Jason thought of the studio apartment she was seriously considering. It was the fourth option they had taken a look at that afternoon, and it was her favorite. All the other apartments had been sterile, lackluster, unimaginative, definitely no place for an artist to live. But this studio…

"It's kind of a dump."

And he was such conservative, uptight prude. Watching him eye the apartment as if it was going to physically attack him if he stayed there any longer, Elizabeth wanted to laugh. They were such an odd pair, even as friends. While she was creative and a free spirit, it was obvious that his birth certificate needed to be altered so that it read _Jason Stick-Up-the-Ass Quartermaine_. His hair was always in place, his clothes were always wrinkle free, and, just once, she wanted to see what he would look like all mussed up. It was that thought along with her growing attraction towards the man that allowed her to entertain the idea of being his more than friend.

Shaking her head to clear away her thoughts, the accountant narrowed her gaze at the man across from her, preparing for verbal battle. "I like the fact that it needs a little bit of work."

"Elizabeth," Jason teased, taking a step towards her, "I never thought you to be the queen of the understatement."

"And I like fixing things up," she ignored his comment, redirecting their conversation away from her and back to the studio. "The more projects I have to keep my busy and out of trouble, the better," she pressed, knowing that he understood the double edged meaning to her words.

Grinning, he asked, "are you prone to trouble," as his arms slipped around her waist and attempted to pull her in towards him. Fortunately for her, she was quick enough to escape his touch.

"Anyone's trouble compared to you."

"Point taken," he allowed.

"But we're not supposed to be talking about me," Elizabeth rushed to readdress the apartment once again. "Come on, tell me what you really think of this place, and I want details."

"Well, for one, the heating system appears to be either broken or simply non-existent."

"Oh, that's easy to remedy," the brunette dismissed his concerns. "A couple of space heaters, and I'll be as snug as a bug in a rug. Plus, I'm not so good at down time or sitting still. Constant motion will help keep me warm."

Winking, he teased her, "I can think of a few other things that would…"

That way of thinking she needed to stop before it could really get started, so, interrupting him, she changed the topic. "And I like that the walls are unfinished. They're basically four giant canvases for me to work on."

"Do you like to paint murals?"

"I like to paint," she simplified. "Neither the surface nor the subject really matter." She could see the older man filing away her comments for later use. Clearing her throat, she tried to distract him. "This place also gets good natural lighting in the afternoon which works well for me and my schedule."

"Elizabeth, it's tiny."

"It's intimate," she corrected, regretting her words as soon as they left her lips. "Plus, I already told you that I don't like complications. I work, and I paint. That's pretty much it, so all I need with my apartment is a place where I can work on my art and sleep. I don't cook, so I don't need a kitchen, I'm not into my appearance, so it's not like I need an entire room to store all of my imaginary clothes, and I sure as hell don't entertain, so I don't need room for other people."

Rubbing the side of his face, Jason offered, "you might eventually want to invite someone over."

"If," the accountant started only to be interrupted.

"When."

"If," she stated once again, the second time getting the chance to continue, "I ever invite someone over, it's not going to be for small talk or to play bridge."

"What will it be for?"

"That's for me to know and for you," Elizabeth replied cheekily, "to never find out."

He was just about to challenge her when the door reopened and the realtor stepped back into the studio. "So," the older woman asked, drawling out that one word with anticipation. "What do you think?"

"We need to see the next one," Jason directed, annoying the artist with his presuming, interfering, egotistical behavior.

"Excuse me," she defied him, fire sparking in her sapphire eyes, "but this has absolutely nothing to do with you. I asked you to come with me in an effort to be nice, to try and be your friend, not so you could dictate my life. I," she stressed, pointing a rigid finger towards her own chest, "I make my own damn decisions. Never forget that." Pivoting away from the pediatrician, she faced the realtor. "I'll take it."

And, just like that, she found her apartment. Sonny was going to hate it and its location, but that only made it a sweeter deal for Elizabeth. Besides, she rationalized to herself while studiously ignoring the man glowering in her direction, she had bigger fish to fry and more important decisions to make, and they all had to deal with one infuriatingly handsome yet upper crust conforming Jason Quartermaine.

Butterflies.

God damn fucking butterflies.

Of all the millions of creatures in the world his wife could have chosen to support with charitable donations from the guests at his birthday party, she had to go and choose perhaps the most effeminate one she could think of – some god damned fucking butterfly whose technical name he couldn't remember for the life of him.

His grandmother would scowl at his use of language, disappointment coloring her papery pale cheeks, his spouse would glower in annoyance at his lack of decorum, and his daughter would giggle at his uncharacteristic display of temper, but one woman in his life would approve – Elizabeth. After a drunken night, a rather strange morning meal that could not be deemed breakfast because of her choice of food, an awkward conversation the week before in her room above _Jake's_, and an afternoon helping her shop for an apartment, he could already tell that her penchant for swearing was rubbing off on him. However, he wanted more from her.

Observing the pastel hued ballroom of his family's hotel, Jason found himself wanting to tear down and destroy every single decoration. Glitter encrusted, sheer, and even real butterflies surrounded him wherever he looked. Instead of a party for a man turning thirty-five, he felt as if he was trapped in an eight year old little girl's fantasy, an eight year old that was decidedly more prim and proper than his own daughter. After discussing the idea of the environmentally advantageous fundraiser with Riegal, she had confessed that she wanted her mother to ask the party goers to donate to the local pounds. Not allowed to have a pet of her own, not a cat and certainly not a dog, the seven year old wished to help those animals that needed owners but couldn't find one. Obviously, his wife had other ideas, ones he found to be ridiculous, and, if any of the guests believed he felt passionately about some insipid butterfly, they obviously did not know him very well at all.

Adding insult on top of insult, he cast his gaze away from the brightly lit dance floor to the large table piled high with presents by the entrance to the room. Despite their requests for charitable donations, those in attendance had brought gaudily wrapped gifts to the party anyway, their ribbons, bows, and papers, no doubt, doing nothing to mask the expensive nature of the lavish and quite unnecessary presents. After all, he was a Quartermaine; anything he needed or wanted he could either by for himself or get someone in his family to purchase it for him. He did not need his _friends_, business associates, and passing acquaintances to purchase him another pair of gold cuff links or a new costly golf club. The excess and extravagance made him feel sick to his stomach, and that feeling of being suffocated, of not being able to breathe in his own skin came back and slammed against him in a dizzying, bruising force, knocking the very wind out of him.

"There you are," his wife chirped pleasantly, her mask of faux happiness and contentment firmly in place behind an overly dazzling smile. "Why are you hiding over here in the corner? You should be greeting your guests."

"They're not my guests," the pediatrician shrugged off her chastisement easily, stepping away from her controlling embrace. "You're the one who wanted all these people here, so you go and talk to them."

"I have been, but they all want to see you. After all," she lowered her voice, the whispered tone doing nothing to cloak her annoying placation of his, what she would deem, insubordination, "you are the man of the hour."

Attempting to turn his back on her, he mumbled, "I need to check in with the hospital."

"You'll do no such thing, and they will not be paging you tonight. I spoke with your father and he instructed the entire staff, told them implicitly, that you are not to be bothered this evening. Now," he could hear the smile return to her voice, "my family just got here, and they're dying to talk to the future chief of staff of General Hospital."

"Then you should take them to talk to another physician, someone who is actually interested in the position."

"Jason," she snapped, grabbing his arm and squeezing it as tightly as her frail, petite hand would allow, "you will not do this to me, not tonight; you will not embarrass me in front of my family. This is what your parents and my parents agreed upon before we got married, before we had a child together. You would be the one to carry on the medical tradition our two families share, while I would be the one to sacrifice my own career to stand by your side and be the perfect society wife for you. It doesn't matter if you don't want the job or not; you made a deal, and I will not stand by and let you renege on it. Now," she ordered, finally releasing her grasp on him, "fix your tie, straighten your jacket, and put a smile on your face. We have guests to see to and my family to greet."

Twirling around, she walked away from him, the tight, almost pinched motion of her steps the only telling sign of her anger; everything else about her appearance screamed control and joviality. She certainly was good at the masquerade. Schooling his features just as he'd been instructed, the husband and father did as he was told and dutifully followed his wife, unsure of just how much longer he would be able to keep up the charade, but, at least for that night, he would go along with the woman he had married, foolishly, naively, stupidly married to please his family. At the end of his figurative rope, he felt the dedication and loyalty he had always lived his life by fraying and disintegrating, and he just hoped that someone was there for him when he inevitably fell from grace.

It was the day of his actual birthday, and, after spending the previous evening in the company of people he barely tolerated, Jason had spent the better portion of the morning and afternoon at work, dealing with the never ending rules that seemed to follow him wherever he went in life. He had been distracted all day, his thoughts fleeting between Elizabeth and his need to run away from everything, but finally his shift was over and he was allowed to leave, to go to some undecided location where he would hopefully be able to relax.

"You know, if you're going to be hanging out with me," Elizabeth's voice greeted him as soon as he stepped outside the automatic doors of the emergency room, "you should really learn how to better watch your surroundings. You never know what or who could be lurking in the shadows."

She was leaning up against a shining hulk of chrome, leather, and black metal, her own outfit blending in well with the colors, or lack there of, of the motorcycle.

"Are you saying that being with you puts my life in danger?"

"Among other things." Leaving the warning at that, she changed he subject, pushing herself off of the bike and striding across the parking lot towards him. "I'm not really the birthday cake and candles type of girl, but I can give you something you want."

He grinned wickedly at her statement, sinfully, never doubting her ability to do so even for a moment. "I bet you could."

"My escape is my art. It's private, it's personal, and it's separate from everything else in my life, meaning it's just mine. Now, I know you can't paint, so that's out as an option, but this," she sighed dreamily, backpedaling until she could caress and smooth her hands over and across the Harley she had previously been resting on, "this is the ultimate freedom, and you're strong enough to give it to the both of us."

"It sounds like you speak from experience."

"An old boyfriend from my past used to ride," the brunette shared, making him grit his teeth unexpectedly in jealousy. "I might have ditched the guy, but I'll never forget what it felt like to be on the back of his bike. It's the closest thing to flying that I've ever been able to reach. You're moving so fast with the air rushing past you that everything else in your life, your work, your worries, even your fears, just disappear, and the only thing left is freedom."

Awestruck by the sheer glimmer of wonder sparkling in her deep blue eyes, Jason questioned softly, murmuring, "and you want to give that feeling to me?"

As quick as the blink of an eye, the reverence was gone only to be replaced with her trademark sarcasm once again. "Do you see me talking to anyone else right now?"

"There's just one problem though," the doctor explained, ignoring her query for it didn't really need to be answered. "I don't know how to drive a motorcycle, and you certainly don't look big enough to control it by yourself."

"I can tell you what to do, and, either way, we'll figure it out together." Grinning widely in his direction, she started to hop up and down on her tiny feet, her excitement bubbling up past her normally cool and reserved demeanor. "Come on, you know you want to go for a ride."

"I do." Finally crossing the space between them only to come to a stop at her side, he asked, "where are we going?"

"Nowhere."

And that's just what they did. For hours, they simply rode together, existing on the back of the rented bike alone and separate from the rest of the confusing and pressuring world. Daylight was replaced with dusk and then the darkness of night, and the afternoon seamlessly shifted evening. He never called home, never made an effort to contact his family to let them know that he was okay and not to expect him home for dinner, and Elizabeth never protested when he refused to stop or relinquish his solitary time with her. Eventually though, they both grew stiff, their bodies unused to the strain of riding, so, taking a road neither of them recognized, he drove until they came to an abandoned clearing, one that obviously had once been the center of an amazing, private property. While the house was gone, its foundation eroded away, the gardens still stood, statues still dotted the corners of the grounds, and a bridge remained, beckoning the two more than friends to stand at its center.

"Look at the sky," the petite woman beside him instructed, her left hand loosely clasped in his right as they simply existed together in the middle of nowhere, exactly where she said they would go. Obliging, he lifted his face towards the moon. "The stars are always so much brighter, so much closer after a ride," she whispered, her gently spoken words stirring and igniting a warmth inside of him he had never experienced before. "Sometimes I think this, this peace that comes afterwards, is the most freeing part of being on a motorcycle."

Before he could comment back, he felt her supple form press against his as she leaned up to graze a kiss against his cheek. "Happy Birthday, Jason."

Seizing the opportunity, he turned, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly to him. Their gazes met, awakened, caught, and the look in her eye stole his breath away. This time instead of fearing the pounding of his heart in his chest and the stifling suffocation of his lungs, he craved it.

"Are we really going to do this," she asked, her plump breasts already rising and falling at a rapid pace.

"We already are."

And with that, Jason Quartermaine did the one thing he never thought he'd do but always wanted to - he let himself go, followed his instincts, and simply lived in the moment by kissing Elizabeth Webber. And the best part was she never once even attempted to pull back and away from him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four  
****A Few Small Steps towards Evolution**

She felt utterly ridiculous. What self-respected, hard working woman allowed her… _special someone? _to blindfold them and lead them around town. It was irresponsible, asking for trouble, and romantic, three things Elizabeth Webber had always tried to avoid, but, while her mind protested Jason's actions, she went along with them, her complaining on the light side. When he had called her that morning, he had requested her to spend time with him that afternoon but had asked for their destination and plans to remain a secret, a surprise. He had sounded so happy on the phone, so carefree and spontaneous, she had not had the heart to deny him. Call her weak, call her sentimental, hell, call her foolish, she already was saying those things about herself after all, but never say that she didn't try new things or, once in a great while, relinquish control to someone else. That said though, enough was enough. The novelty of not being able to see where she was going had long since worn off, and, unless Jason had some perverse sense of humor where he enjoyed watching her trip over her own two feet every other step, then she knew her companion for the afternoon was ready to end their adventure as well.

Sick of thinking and needing a distraction from her own clumsiness, she asked good-naturedly, "and why again did you want to surprise me with our destination?"

"Deniability," the doctor answered. If she wasn't so good at reading people, even blindfolded, then she would have missed the note of humor in his voice and believed he was sincere with his response; he was that convincing.

"Nice try, Dudley-Do-Right. Let's try this again." Prompting him, she pressed, "you wanted me unable to see where we're going because…"

"Because this way you'd have no idea how to find your way back," Jason responded honestly. "This way, if you want to leave, you have to wait for me to take you. Otherwise, you'll get lost."

"That's not necessarily true. You see, women understand the idea of asking for directions… unlike our weaker, male counterparts on the evolutionary chain."

He chuckled at her cheekiness, tightening the hold his right arm had around her waist and squeezing her. "There's just one flaw with your logic there, Webber."

"And that would be?"

"In order to ask someone directions, you have to be somewhere that is inhabited, where you can find other people to ask. Where we're going," he revealed, "there will just be you, me, and nature."

"Nature, huh," she repeated as if to question him, a sly grin on her otherwise deceptively angelic face. That Elizabeth had not been expecting. Prim and proper, conservative, straight laced goody-two-shoes Jason Morgan was taking her on a date where they were going to have to, apparently, rough it. She had been thinking they were going to some over-priced and stuffy restaurant or maybe even an out of the way inn where they could be alone with no interruptions, but never did the word nature enter her thoughts. That said, she was pleasantly surprised; after all, she carried a gun. Maybe he was taking her hunting. A girl could only hope.

"What are you thinking," the pediatrician's query interrupted her thoughts. Bewildered, she simply tilted her head in his direction, her unseeing eyes behind the handkerchief focused in the direction she believed him to be. "I can see the wheels turning in that devious mind of yours," Jason explained his question. "You're planning something."

Arguing, she stated, "you're the planner today; I'm just the doer. However, that said," she admitted, shrugging her petite shoulders, "I was just thinking that I might get to shoot my gun this afternoon. I've been too busy with the new gallery to go to the shooting range, and I miss it."

"You brought your gun with you? We're just going on a date."

"And someone has to make sure you don't get fresh with me, Quartermaine," she teased, elbowing him softly in the ribs, "or, in this case, something."

Returning the joshing, he remarked, "we already covered this. You're the trouble maker between the two of us. If anyone needs protection here, it's me."

"Aw, Jason," she giggled, enjoying their bantering. "Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. Your sanctity is safe with me."

"What if I don't want it to be safe?" Startling her, the blonde picked her up and pulled her against him, holding her several inches off the ground with their bodies pressed intimately together. Walking forwards still with her in his arms, he stopped only when her back was pressed up against a cool, hard piece of wood. Although Elizabeth couldn't be sure what it was, it was flat and solid, and it felt large enough to be a door. "What if I want you to take advantage of me?"

When she went to reply, she felt his warm, moist breath pooling across her face. The unexpected closeness, their noses rubbing together tenderly, made her gasp, and, when his lips found the tender flesh of her jaw line, she moaned her approval. If this, the two of them together with no interruptions and only their basic human attraction to keep them occupied, was what Jason had meant when he said it was just going to be them and nature, then she would voluntarily move to the woods, cast aside civilization permanently, and allow the good doctor to bring his blindfold with him.

Finally, after several attempts of regaining her bearings, the accountant managed to whimper in response, "only if you promise to return the favor."

Evidently, it was exactly what he wanted to hear, and the next thing she knew they were inside someplace warm, her body was resting on a comfortable piece of furniture, and her _special someone _was braced on top of her, his solidly muscled form held above her, barely teasing her with the promise of his erotic, sensuous weight against her. However, he never gave her what she wanted; he never lowered himself further until they were melded together from the tips of their toes to their lips. Instead, she felt the handkerchief being lifted from her eyes, and, as it fluttered down to the wooden floor of the small building they were in, Elizabeth, surprisingly, felt its absence and missed it, missed its ability to heighten all her other senses.

"You know," Jason whispered, his mouth moving against hers as he spoke and tempting her to silence him permanently with a kiss, "this isn't what I brought you out here for."

"Well, isn't that a shame."

Ignoring the open invitation her statement was meant to be, he continued. "I've been here before, during the summer months when we used to come out here as kids to go swimming, but this is the first time I've ever been here during the winter." Swallowing hesitantly, he lifted his gaze away from hers and stared at the rafters, his slight embarrassment and palpable fear of rejection coloring his otherwise naturally tanned face. "I wanted to do something new with you, something that we've both never experienced before."

Reaching up a leather gloved hand, she tenderly cupped his face. "That sounds really nice." Although touched by his gesture, Elizabeth was not ready to completely eradicate the levity they shared in their fledgling relationship. She needed the humor to keep it from becoming too real, too meaningful. "However," she taunted him with a mischievous smirk, taking in their rustic (for Quartermaine standards) surroundings, "how do you know that I've never had sex before in a boathouse?"

"Who said anything about sex?"

Confused, the younger woman pushed against his chest, insinuating that she wanted to sit up. After he allowed her to, she regarded him closely. "Jason, we're in the middle of nowhere, alone, and I highly doubt anyone is going to interrupt us out here. What else did you want to do?"

"Ice fishing," he replied easily, gesturing towards the two fishing poles and small container of bait he had set aside for them.

"Well, I'll be damned. Looks like I'll get to kill something after all."

"And I brought lunch, too," the medical professional shared eagerly.

Glancing towards the picnic basket he had indicated, Elizabeth stood and made her way towards the food, chastising him quietly. "I doubt asking your family's cook to make you a lunch for two when your wife is quite obviously not with you was a very good idea."

"Cook didn't make it," Jason confessed, nodding for her to open the wicker lid. "I did," he continued after she had done as he silently asked. "Although, it probably would have been better if Cook had."

"No," the accountant fervently denied. "This is perfect. I hate stuffy, formal food. But peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cookies, on the other hand, they're right up my alley. And, what's this," she asked while, simultaneously unscrewing the thermos' lid and smelling the steaming hot liquid. "Hot chocolate?" Sighing, she graced him with a delighted, thankful smile. "Hot chocolate just might be my favorite thing in the whole world."

Standing up, Elizabeth made her way back over towards the old, lumpy couch taking up one whole wall of the old boathouse. Climbing onto her _special someone's _lap, she straddled him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and brought them close enough together that their foreheads could touch. Shifting coquettishly against him, she smirked wickedly when he gulped in anticipation. "What…," Jason attempted to ask but had to stop and regroup his thoughts, her actions driving him to distraction. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like," the private artist retorted saucily. "I'm rewarding you," she answered for him, "for taking me on such an original date."

He quirked his brow at her. "Original is good then?"

"The best," Elizabeth murmured before dropping her lips to brush against his not once, not twice, but three times before pulling back when she sensed that he wanted to say something else.

"Just to let you know, I don't want to… you know," Jason fidgeted, avoiding her questioning gaze. Clearing his voice, he clarified, "I don't want to sleep together yet, not here."

"But that doesn't mean we can't fool around, right?

"Right."

"So we can pretend that we're hormonal teenagers again who can't go all the way but really, really want to?"

She could see her own gaiety glittering back at her in his much lighter blue eyes. "We can act as if we're parking up at Vista Pointe."

"Vista Pointe?"

"Don't worry," Jason told her. "I'll take you there sometime."

"Is that a promise?"

"More like a threat."

She went to laugh, but her humor was swallowed by his mouth as it closed over hers, devoured hers, conquered hers, and she was his willing conquest. As they settled down more comfortably on the old sofa, Elizabeth pressed familiarly underneath him, she had a feeling they wouldn't get much fishing done that afternoon. Not that she was going to complain. Making out with Jason with the abandon and innocent desire of a teenager ranked much higher in her book than attaching a dirty, disgusting worm unto a hook. She might be a pretty touch chick who didn't take anyone or anything's crap, but even she drew the line at night crawlers. After all, a girl had to have her standards.

"You're late," Sonny Corinthos greeted his accountant later that week. "And you're dressed up, I see." The sarcasm practically dripped from his words.

"I wore nice pants, a sweater, and I traded in my leather boots for a pair of ballet flats," Elizabeth defended her wardrobe choices. "What more do you want from me?"

"Some color would be nice."

"It's winter, so I wear black."

He eyed her closely. "And what changes exactly during the warmer months?"

Lifting her chin up a notch, Elizabeth's posture was practically a challenge in and of itself. "I switch from black to dark grey. Besides," she added tauntingly, "when did Mr. Blackwell die and make you the fashion police?"

Before the Latino could reply, his wife was at his side, smiling softly and welcoming their guest with a caring hug and sisterly kiss to the cheek. It never failed. Whenever her husband and his young accountant were in the same room together, they inevitably started to bicker. Sonny, who was much older than the artist, would attempt to father her, offering unsolicited advice, and, if there was anything her friend despised, it was someone else telling her what to do. So, during the few times a year they would meet up for an evening and have dinner together, she was their buffer, their peacekeeper, and Lily found the situation, if nothing else, amusing.

"Please, sit down," she gestured towards the sectional seating area dominating the great room of their penthouse after pulling away from the younger woman. "Dinner is almost ready. In fact, I think Michael was about to check on it right before you arrived. Weren't you," she prompted, turning to face her husband, and, as only a married couple could, they communicated further without any words needing to be shared. Once they were alone, she joined the brunette, taking the chair across from her.

"He's too old fashioned," Elizabeth complained, making the older woman smile indulgently. She loved when the accountant was in town or they got to spend time together. Although the wife and mother adored her life with her husband and her children, Elizabeth brought a vitality, a sense of energy to their home that, when she wasn't there, Lily found herself missing. "I swear, sometimes I think that man expects me to walk around in knee length skirts and pearls. Well, let me tell you what, he'll go legitimate before that ever happens."

"I have no doubt. Unlike Michael, I can't picture you in a dress."

"Of course not," Elizabeth agreed readily. "My gun would completely ruin the line, and I'd have to wear a holster."

Deciding it was time to change the subject, the older woman sat back comfortably in her chair and asked, "so, how are you liking Port Charles so far?"

"It's like all the other cities I've lived in but colder." Lily watched as her friend averted her gaze and lifted a hand to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, obstructing her ability to read the artist's expression. "I don't mind the snow and ice though. There are ways a girl can stay warm."

"Elizabeth?"

Guiltily, the brunette popped her head up, her bright sapphire eyes wide and seemingly innocent. "What?"

"Are you… are you seeing someone?"

"I see people all the time," the accountant replied readily, purposely avoiding Lily's true question. "In fact, I'm seeing you right now. Why do you ask?"

"You know what I mean, Elizabeth. Do you have a boyfriend?"

The younger woman grimaced, wrinkling her cute button of a nose up in disgust. "Ugh, I hate that word. I don't do boyfriends. I casually date, I have one night stands, and I occasionally find a friend with benefits, but that's it. Relationships are trouble I don't need, especially with my line of work."

It was her turn to respond naively. "Since when did crunching numbers and running art galleries because a liability where the idea of love is concerned?"

"And I don't fall in love either."

"Not yet," Lily corrected her friend, "but someday…"

"Listen, I know that you want me to have what you have – the husband, the kids, the perfect little mafia family, but I'm not like that," the brunette stated defiantly. "My life is better when I'm alone."

"Alright, so you're not ready for marriage right now," the older woman conceded, "but that doesn't mean that you can't go on some double dates with Michael and I. While you're in town, I'd like to take advantage of your company, and Michael has some really amazing guys working for him right now, guys who are used to and comfortable with our… less than conventional lifestyle. If nothing else," she teased, "you can compare guns with them."

"Thanks but no thanks," Elizabeth begged off, standing up and moving towards the bar. As she went through the various bottles of expensive liquor, looking for something simple, something that was as close to beer as she could get, she continued. "Like I said, I'm not into dating, and, even if I was, I'd never let you set me up with one of your husband's guards. Face it, Lily, our tastes in men, among other things, are vastly different. Besides," she added after finally giving up hope of finding that she wanted, "I'm too busy right now."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." Switching topics, she wandered around the penthouse, pretending to look in odd corners and behind large pieces of furniture. "Now, where are those kids of yours? I've been planning what bad words and naughty habits I could teach them while I'm here tonight all week."

The older woman laughed, uncrossing her slender legs, standing up, and moving after her friend. "Lolita is at a friend's house, and Mateo is having dinner with his Grandfather this evening. Michael wanted tonight just to be the three of us; he wanted us to have the chance to catch up with each other."

"No, what he wanted was to make sure I didn't corrupt your angelic children," Elizabeth corrected her host playfully.

As the man in question came back into the great room, Lily led her younger friend to the table. "Trust me, they are far from angelic. With Michael as their father…"

The two women shared a conspiratorial laugh as Sonny set his latest masterpiece, their dinner, down, and, though she let the subject of men and commitment drop, the wife and mother knew there was something Elizabeth was hiding. The fact that the artist had a secret didn't bother her; what did was the fact that Elizabeth felt she needed to keep the secret in the first place. Whatever it was, she would wait for her friend to come to her; she would not pry… for the time being.

With one last final thrust, Elizabeth felt Jason push her over the edge. Somewhere, in the back her mind, there was the vague realization that he was right there with her, spiraling out of control, but she was too lost in the bliss, in the ecstasy, in the earth shattering moment to really take notice. Instead, she allowed herself the opportunity to bask in her post-orgasmic glow as she collapsed on top of the heavily breathing, glistening man beneath her, curled into him, and practically purred in contentment when he wrapped a pair of strong arms around her, pulling her in even closer to his body. For the first time since he had kissed her that afternoon, the artist allowed her tired, sated form to relax, and, as the languidness of release settled upon her, her heavily lidded eyes dropped shut and she was able to relive every precious, lust inducing moment with Jason all over again.

Since it was Saturday, she had only worked half a day at the gallery, returning home early to paint and wait for Jason's arrival. Every week, he would take her out on Saturday afternoons, always to a different location, always to someplace original, always to someplace private. Although they spent time with each other during the weekdays as well, the weekends were explicitly for dates, and, unlike her previous relationships, as unorthodox and few in number as they were, Elizabeth allowed Jason to set the pace. Because of that reason, they had been seeing each other for over a month and had yet to sleep together… well, at least, not until that afternoon.

She had been lost in a painting, so consumed with her art she never heard him approach her studio, knock, or let himself in with the key she had given him when she didn't answer the door. He had walked up behind, slipped his arms around her waist, and softly kissed her neck, surprising her but not scaring her. After all, he never could. And, just like that, their relationship progressed to the next level. There was no awkwardness, no second guessing, and no doubts. Jason had simply entered her apartment and seduced her, and boy had she been willing prey.

Startling her from her thoughts, the doctor, who had obviously paid particular attention during his anatomy courses while in med school, shifted, realigning their bodies so that they were facing each other and resting on their sides, and, with the movement, she became very aware of the fact that their frames were still intimately connected. In fact, feeling him stir inside of her made every single nerve ending in her body tingle with anticipation and recognition. She could feel the hair on his legs tickling her own waxed limbs as his thighs wrapped around hers and pulled her hips even tighter against his own, she could feel the sinews and tendons of his corded arms sweep against her own feminine shoulders as he wound her body into his embrace and laced his hands together over the supple, sensitive skin of her delicately curved derrière, and she could feel his firm yet gentle, soft and yet still strong lips dance across her collar bone as he teasingly nipped and soothed her blush tinted porcelain skin. Every touch, every whisper of their bodies against each other was a finely polished, timeless, yearned for torture that Elizabeth had never experienced before until that moment. She had seen glimpses of it with men from her past, she had dreamed of one day finally experiencing it, but she had never imagined the fantasy being actualized with a very much married man, and, astonishing herself, she found that she didn't care that Jason had a wife and a daughter waiting for him at home. When they were alone together, when it was just the two of them in bed together in her tiny, little studio apartment, the rest of the world, including his family and his commitments, simply melted away.

Giggling in a voice that could only be described as post-coital low, the accountant was the first to break the silence that had been cocooning them. "See, I told you I'd be able to find ways to stay warm in this place."

Before responding, Jason kissed her, melding their mouths together and allowing his tongue to sip slowly, leisurely from the essence of her palate as he reveled in her taste. "Just make sure I'm the only one you invite over when you start to get chilly."

"And what if you're unavailable? What am I supposed to do if you're at work?"

"Then I guess you'll just have to start without me," he directed, grinning wickedly. "However, with that thought in mind, you might have a hard time, no pun intended, getting me to leave in the first place."

Snuggling even closer to him and sucking in a needy gasp of desire as her bare, aroused breasts rubbed intimately against his sculpted chest, Elizabeth teased, "would that really be such a bad thing?"

"No," he answered, withdrawing from her body only to render her speechless when he surged back up inside her, "that wouldn't be bad at all." Holding completely still inside of her, Jason pressed, "in fact, if I had my way, I'd see you much more than I do already. I'm sick of sneaking around, of only being able to spend time with you in secret. If nothing else, I want to be your friend in public and your lover in private."

At that moment, Elizabeth was feeling too much, experiencing too many emotions and sensations to respond, so, instead of the words she had prepared in her mind escaping her parted, swollen lips, the only thing she could offer the man inside of her was a moan, a moan of satisfaction, a moan of want, a moan of compliance and agreement as long as he somehow found a way to assuage the ache growing exponentially inside of her with every passing, fleeting second of time.

When he started moving again, slowing rocking his hips against hers, her dilated, desperate eyes snapped open and locked with his own need filled, mischievous gaze. "If I can think of a way for us to be together out in the open, will you go along with it," he asked, speeding up his thrusts. "Will you? Tell me you will, Elizabeth," Jason urged her.

"Yes," she finally screamed over and over again, her voice hoarse with completion.

She knew he had just manipulated her body, used her desire for him to get the answer he wanted, but, as she gut drunk off her orgasm, relishing both is sheer strength and potency, she didn't really care. The pleasure had been worth it, and, if nothing else, as she felt the man beside her reach his own climax, she realized that she did want to be a part of his life outside of the private world they had constructed around each other, consequences be damned.

It was a week later when Elizabeth stumbled into her apartment, her arms laden down with paint supplies, thick ledgers, and dinner, and noticed the blinking red light on her answering machine. When she pressed the button to listen to the message, she had not been prepared for just how much a one minute, one sided phone call was about to change her life. But, then again, she never really was prepared for those life altering moments, and, if she was, they wouldn't have the strength to knock her world upside down and inside out in the first place.

"Miss Webber, this is Doctor Alan Quartermaine, Chief of Staff here at General Hospital. I was calling to inquire about your level of interest in a new volunteer program we're going to be starting in the pediatric department. My son, Doctor Jason Quartermaine, is interested in offering his terminal patients weekly art classes as a means to both distract them from their illness and provide them with another mean to express themselves. According to my son, you're both an amazingly talented young artist and a woman with a kind, generous heart. If you're interested in helping us with this project, please contact me. I look forward to hearing from you, Miss Webber."

He had done what he said he was going to, and, though his plan was risky for, if she accepted the offer, they would be practically flaunting their relationship right under his family's nose, Elizabeth had a feeling the setup might just work, and, even if it didn't, even if they did get caught, at least they would be going down with all guns blazing. Besides, if nothing else, she loved a challenge, and what was more of a challenge than deceiving the most powerful, most influential, and most wealthy family in town? Nothing.

Picking up her cordless phone, she dropped her supplies onto the floor and sat down on her bed, reclining upon the sheets she had still not yet washed after her amazing afternoon the previous weekend with Jason. Even though she didn't want to think about the consequences of her actions, she could sleep better with his scent surrounding her, and she wasn't ready to give up that comfort yet by changing her bedding. Dialing the number that had been on her caller ID screen, she waited for the person on the other end to pick up, expecting a secretary.

"This is Doctor Alan Quartermaine. How may I help you?"

So the Chief of Staff had given her his private line. Interesting.

"Doctor Quartermaine, this is Elizabeth Webber calling."

"Alan, please," he requested of her.

"Alright then, Alan," the accountant agreed with an amused smirk on her face. If only he knew… "I just listened to your message, and I wanted to let you know right away that I am interested in your offer." Her smirk grew into a full fledged smile before she pressed. "In fact, I'm very, _very_ interested."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five  
****Coming Out From the Shadows**

Raspberry banana crepes, at one point, were Jason's favorite breakfast item that Cook made, but, as he cut into one that morning, he found the fancy French cuisine to be lacking. Instead, all he wanted was one of Elizabeth's odd yet endearing breakfasts, breakfasts filled with foods that normally were not eaten in the morning. Sometimes it was grilled cheese and tomato soup, one lazy Saturday she had ordered them tacos, and his favorite was the week before when they had both been too exhausted from a night of tasting each other in bed to even consider calling out for food. So, hungry but with no ambition, they had resorted to eating cold pizza and drinking beer, the only thing she had in her mini-fridge, for their first meal of the day. But, it was the middle of the week, and he wasn't with Elizabeth; he was with his wife, and even the simplest things such as what he ate for breakfast made Jason feel stifled and claustrophobic. It was to the point where he wasn't sure how much longer he would be able to survive living out the Quartermaine ideal.

Dissatisfied with his food and unwilling to eat something just because he had once enjoyed it, the pediatrician pushed aside his plate, reached for the carafe, and poured himself another steaming hot cup of coffee. Black. He had once disguised the bitter taste of the liquid with crème and sugar, but, as his outlook on life changed, so did his palate. In fact, there wasn't much left of the man he had once been.

He dressed differently. With his relationship with Elizabeth, he never knew when she might call him up wanting to do something, and the suits he had been raised to wear day in and day out did not fit with the accountant's style or sense of adventure. Ties simply got in the way if they decided to rent a bike for an afternoon and go for a ride, silk shirts were too thin to take walks in the woods, and expensive Italian loafers were impractical when she dragged him to the shooting range. Gone were his tailored suits and designer casual ensembles to be replaced with practical jeans, t-shirts, warm leather jackets, and boots, motorcycle boots, and, oddly enough, not only were the new clothes more comfortable, but Jason also felt more at home in the simple garments, more like the man he wanted to be and not the man his family told him to be.

His hair was growing longer by the day, and, although he didn't particularly care one way or another how he wore his hair, Jason could tell that Elizabeth preferred it long. She could run her fingers through it when they were in bed together, lounging around and talking, and, when they were in the throes of passion, she would pull on his golden locks, the harsh treatment both a punishment and a pleasure.

As far as his schedule went, he spent only the amount of time that he was required to at the hospital, never working over, and, with his extra time, he paid more attention to his daughter, taking her out to dinner, helping her with her homework, and he was even considering the idea of taking her to the art classes the hospital was offering to the terminal pediatric patients. So far, he had not had the courage to introduce the two most important women in his life to each other, but, as his relationship with Elizabeth progressed and grew more powerful, Jason knew that would soon change.

All in all, he was practically a new man, reinvented with the help of his mistress but modeled after the image he had always pictured for himself. However, although he noticed all the differences, both on the outside and on the inside, the doctor was unsure as to whether or not his family had picked up on the changes he had been implementing. If they had, they didn't react to them, and, if they hadn't, he wondered just how oblivious they really were to everyone else but themselves. And when he said his family, that sentiment, unfortunately, also included his wife.

"After all these years of you lecturing me about my eating habits, you're the one who no longer eats."

"I eat," Jason defended himself, never once even looking up at his wife. "I just don't eat here."

"Among other things," the blonde across from him remarked dryly.

For several moments they were silent. His grandfather, parents, aunt, brother, and cousins had yet to make their way to the table, but the pediatrician knew the quiet wouldn't remain much longer, and, soon, he and his spouse would be joined by the rest of the Quartermaine household. Deciding to take advantage of the situation, he put his coffee cup down, stood up, and stared at the mother of his only child until she relented and returned his gaze.

"I'm having an affair."

"No, really?" It was rare when the woman across from him displayed sarcasm, but her tone reassured him. Not only had she noticed the differences in him, but she obviously didn't care about them. "Just remember what I told you, Jason," she directed coldly. "You're either discreet or… well, to be blunt, I'll make your life a living hell."

As he walked out of the formal dining room, he did not doubt his wife's words for a minute, and, if there was anyone in the world who had the power to destroy him, it was the woman he was married to.

"Do you know what I think I love the most about you?" Jason felt the brunette beside him tense, her body language betraying her level of discomfort with his choice of words. So, to help her relax once again, he amended his previous statement by adding, "what I love the most about you physically." With his right elbow propped up underneath him and his hand fisted at his temple, the doctor was reclined in bed, lounging languidly beside a very naked and very satisfied Elizabeth. They had just made love, but, unlike the stereotype, he wasn't tired. Refusing to allow her to cover her body, she lay bare at his side, every smooth, glorious inch of her on display for his greedy eyes.

The artist didn't answer though. Instead, she simply sighed in pleasure, content to just listen to him. Finally, Jason responded, "I love your skin. I love how pure, how flawless it is. I love that it is always warm to the touch even when we've been outside for hours walking through the woods or playing in the snow. I love how a pink blush steals across it when you're embarrassed, when you've just taken a shower, or when we've just made love." He knew she wouldn't particularly care for his choice of words, but the pediatrician refused to refer to their actions any other way. "I love how it practically shimmers in the dark and glows in the moonlight. I love how it feels underneath my own fingers, impossibly soft, so soft I can lose myself in your embrace. When your arms are wrapped around me, I feel safe and at ease, like I'm being wrapped up in a satin sheet."

Despite her best efforts, the rose blush Jason had spoke of was making its way down Elizabeth's cheeks, onto her neck, and further down onto her chest and pert breasts. "Well, aren't you just full of flattery today." Rolling away from him, she settled back down once she was resting on her stomach, her arms folded underneath her head, acting as a pillow. "I'm sure you say those things to all the girls."

"What girls?"

"You know," she prompted him, quirking one finely shaped brow, "your wife, the nurses you work with, the good looking mothers that come in with their kids."

Suddenly serious, he slid closer to her, needing the reassurance of her knowing and believing that he had never been as intimate with another woman as he was with her. "Elizabeth…"

But she wouldn't let him. "I'm glad you like my skin so well," she started, but he interrupted her.

"I love your skin."

"However," she teased, ignoring his remark. Popping her legs up, she swung them back and forth in the air, crossing them at the ankles. "I've been thinking lately about getting something."

"What?"

"But now that I know how fond you are of my _flawless _skin, I'm not so sure you'd like the idea."

Jason tilted his head to the side in thought. Running his wintry gaze up and down her vulnerable form, both for the simple delight of it and to help him imagine what sort of something she might be talking about, he contemplated her words. Finally, realization dawned. "Are you getting a tattoo?"

"Well, I was thinking about it, but now I don't know. You know what they say," the accountant explained, "never mess with a good thing, and, apparently, my skin is a very, very good thing in your book."

His gaze was alight with possibilities. "Where would you get it?"

"Hm," Elizabeth shrugged, dismissing the idea. "I'm not sure. It was just something I was considering. I had no definite plans. Why do you ask?"

Without a word, the blonde climbed out of bed, making his way towards the shelves where she kept her clean paintbrushes, unabashedly naked. He could feel her watching him, her deeply hued, observant eyes following his every move, and Jason relished the idea that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Returning to her side, he lowered himself back onto bed but did not lay down. Instead, he moved so that he was braced across her body, straddling her legs with one knee on each side of her. Her still swinging legs fell silently to the mattress, and, taking the action as an invitation, he readied the brush in his hand and began his inquisitive seduction.

"Would it be here," he asked, dipping the bristles down to just barely skim across her delicate left ankle, swirling the artist's tool around in a circular, tempting motion.

"No, too impersonal, too open for the rest of the world to see," she denied his suggestion.

Keeping his touch away from her body, he moved the brush up until it was hovering just over her shoulder blades. With the gentlest of strokes, he painted an invisible mark across the top portion of her back, watching as goosebumps rose on her delicate skin and she shuddered slightly from desire. "I see a lot of tattoos here. It's a popular choice."

"It is," Elizabeth agreed with him, "but, as you said, anyone can see it if you wear a slightly revealing shirt, and if I got a tattoo, I wouldn't even want it to show when I wore my bathing suit."

Trailing the bristles down her spine, the physician stopped them at the small of her back, twirling the brush along the sensual dip of her body where her hips met the rise of her round and purely feminine derrière. "What about here?"

"Didn't I mention that my bathing suit is a bikini, a very tiny, extremely revealing string bikini?"

"Note to self," he laughed, "take Elizabeth swimming this summer as often as possible." Instead of replying, she simply stretched, causing the fine and graceful muscles of her body to pull and tighten before smoothing out once again. Determined to continue, he pressed on. Lifting the brush from her nude form, the doctor smirked to himself before dropping it to run mischievously along the curve of her bottom. His fingers, his lips wanted to follow the path of the paintbrush, but, denying himself, Jason remained still and allowed the bristles to be the only thing touching the brunette's petal soft skin. "Here?"

"Do not even think about it. Your name in a heart will not be permanently inked on my ass," she warned him, giggling playfully at the very idea.

"I would have settled for initials," he returned just as lightheartedly. Still without an answer and finding their little game to be highly erotic, Jason lifted himself off her body, sat down beside her on the bed, and reached out to roll her over so that she was resting on her back, giving him a new, unexplored canvas to work with. Deciding first to start with her thighs, he danced the brush across the very top of her legs. "I know this would still show in your very tiny, extremely revealing string bikini, but I like this spot."

She writhed and twisted beneath him, the whispered touch of the bristles tickling the sensitive location on her body. "Do you honestly think I'd be able to sit still long enough while someone tattooed me there?"

The lady had a point. Moving on, the pediatrician slid his paintbrush up her supple form until it came to a stop just above the rounded slope of her right breast. Aroused, her dusty nipples stood erect before him, tantalizing him to cease what he was doing and take the aching, swollen buds into his mouth. Refusing to give in, he questioned, "would your bathing suit cover here?"

Without a word, Elizabeth responded by simply smiling demurely and nodding her head no. He wanted to see her in the bikini so badly, that he had to clamp his eyes shut and grit his teeth in an attempt to regain control of his quickly unraveling restraint. The efforts were in vain. Knowing his little game of seduction had gone too far, the blonde dropped the paintbrush he was holding and slithered his way down the body of the quivering woman beneath him. Stopping underneath her belly button, low on her stomach almost to the point where her thighs met, Jason placed a chaste, tender kiss on her alabaster skin, loosing himself in the touch of her against his lips, in the scent of their desire mingling in the warm, still air of her studio. "What about here," he asked, but, before she could reply, his mouth continued moving further and further down her body until the idea of a tattoo fled both of their minds, and the only thought either of them had was about the sheer bliss his tongue, teeth, and lips were bringing the thrashing, begging, glistening, moaning, trembling, screaming brunette under him.

It had been nearly a week since Jason had last seen Elizabeth, and he felt as if he was ready to climb out of his own skin. The lack of her presence in his life was quickly and efficiently driving him out his mind. Every time he called her to see if she wanted to do something with him, she always had an excuse as to why they couldn't. The gallery would be opening soon, and she wasn't ready. There was just too much work for one person to do. If he would offer to go in with her, she would turn him down, claiming he would be more of a distraction than an assistance. Although she was right, the fact that she seemed to not want to spend time with him hurt.

However, it was Thursday which meant that they were both together at the art class she offered at the hospital. True, there were a dozen children running around, interrupting them and making sure that they spent absolutely no alone time together, but the doctor felt better simply being in the same room with her. While she helped the patients with their art projects for that week, he would watch her. She was wonderful – attentive, warm, generous, and gracious. The kids all adored her, and, if one looked close enough, it was obvious that Elizabeth felt the same way about the kids. Seeing her apparent joy surprised him.

When he spoke about his daughter, she was always receptive and curious, but she never pushed him for information, and she certainly never asked to meet his little girl. Because of that, the pediatrician had always assumed that she didn't enjoy spending time with children, so, when he approached his father with the idea of the art classes for the terminal patients, it had simply been so that he and Elizabeth could spend time together in public; he had never anticipated her liking the classes and her pupils so much. The fact that she did made him care even more for her, and he was resolute that his daughter and his mistress would soon be meeting each other.

The hour long class soon ended, Jason getting lost in observing the woman his mind was always with and his body always wished to be with, and, before he knew what was happening, they were alone, cleaning up the small conference room which had been turned into a mini studio. Propped up on the countertop by the sink, the accountant's legs crossed primly before her, she watched as he cleaned out all the paint dishes, rinsing them out and putting them away in the cupboard, never once saying a word.

"You've been avoiding me."

Without addressing his statement, she changed the topic. "And you're being petulant."

"I realize that you're busy, that your job is important to you, but I was under the impression that I meant something to you, too."

Softening her facial expression, Elizabeth smiled at him. "You do."

"Then why haven't you wanted to spend any time with me this week," he pressed, needing an answer. Doubt about their relationship, about her interest in still seeing him, had plagued the blonde since he walked out of her apartment door the weekend before. He knew she was quickly becoming his weakness, a vulnerability that could be used against him, and, although he didn't like the feeling of needing someone, he was learning to accept the helplessness he felt where she, the young artist, was concerned. However, that said, he wasn't yet prepared to tell her just how much power she had over him. So, to add a practical element to his apprehension, he continued. "You know all about the kinds of horrors we see that come through those doors downstairs, because I've told you about some of them. Next time work gets too hectic for you to hang out, would you please call me just to let me know you're okay and not laying hurt somewhere? I know that you're just not an accountant; I know that there's more to your job than operating art galleries." When her face screwed up in question, he explained, "you carry a gun. Most number crunchers I know consider a calculator the only weapon they need."

"I told you before and I'll tell you again," she reassured him, "I can take care of myself, but," she stopped him from interrupting her by holding up a hand, "although I don't foresee a next time coming up, if it ever does, I'll check in and let you know that I'm still kicking."

"Thank you."

"That said so," Elizabeth smirked, avoiding his gaze, "I have a confession. I wasn't exactly working the whole time this week."

He knew it; he knew that something else was going on. They had gotten too close the last time they were together, too intimate, and now she was running scared from him, from his feelings for her, and the feelings he believed she had for him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I was hiding from you."

That Jason had not been expecting. "Hiding? From me?"

"I couldn't have you come over to the apartment," the brunette clarified. "If you would have come over, then you would have picked up on the fact that something was different, and then you would have started snooping around."

The physician grinned, his face smug and arrogant in appearance. "You bought me something?"

Hedging, she admitted, "I guess you could say that, but it's not what you're thinking, and, besides, it's kind of for the both of us, because I'm sure we're both going to get enjoyment from it."

"You're being very cryptic, Elizabeth."

"Well, a girl can't be straightforward when the topic of conversation is supposed to be a surprise. That said, you're also being obtuse, seeing as how we've discussed this before."

Understanding dawned. "You didn't?"

Uncrossing her legs, the accountant quirked a single finger and motioned for Jason to approach her. Obeying, he dropped the dish he had been cleaning out, letting it clatter against the metal of the sink and splatter purple paint on both the counter and his shirt. Moving to stand between her now open legs, he leaned into her body, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into a tight embrace. In return, Elizabeth enfolded him in her body, twining her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Their clinch was inappropriate for the hospital, for the public; if anyone, including his family, walked in on them, it would be obvious that they were more than acquaintances, more than friends who worked together once a week to provide an hour's worth of distraction for a dozen very ill pediatric patients, but neither the doctor nor the artist cared, in that moment, if they were caught. Instead, they were too engrossed in each other.

Finally, she confessed, biting her lip, "I did."

"When do I get to see it?"

"This weekend," Elizabeth answered, lowering her face so that their foreheads could rest against each others, "that is if you can come over." Teasing him, she asked, "do you want to have a slumber party with me, Doctor Quartermaine?"

"Just as long as we don't do much sleeping, you know I'll be there." She laughed melodically at his words, gracing him with a bright, generous smile. Curious, he pressed, "do I get a hint as to the location of the surprise?"

She shook her head yes. Instead of speaking though, the young woman simply let go of his neck, took one of his larger hands in both of her delicate, petite ones and guided his palm to rest low against her abdomen, practically cupping her heat. Jason was instantly aroused, his body alert with need and straining with passion. He wanted her, right there in a very public, very unrestricted hospital conference room, the consequences be damned. Keeping his hand where she had placed it, he slowly moved his mouth closer towards hers, their short, sporadic breaths washing over each others mouths in anticipation, but, before he could kiss her, the door behind them opened up, Elizabeth froze, and he heard a gasp of shock and disgust kill any aura of seduction the two of them had managed to weave around them. Letting go of the accountant's form, the blonde turned around to face the third person in the room, rebelling against their disapproval by lacing the digits of his right hand through Elizabeth's left.

Lily Corinthos was the last person he had been expecting to find staring back at him.

"Doctor Quartermaine," she addressed him curtly, never once taking her cold, dark eyes from his companion's face. Without a word being said between the two women, he was aware of the fact that they knew each other. How though, he wasn't sure.

He knew the wife of the local mobster through both his job and society. Lily brought her two young children to see him; he was their pediatrician, and, despite the fact that her husband's business was less than reputable, he was still an extremely wealthy and powerful man, one some members of the upper class associated with simply because Sonny Corinthos was a better friend and ally than he was an enemy.

Distracting his thoughts, the older woman spoke again. "Everything makes sense now, Elizabeth – why you were so adamantly against me setting you up with one of Michael's guards, why you never seem to have time to spend with my family, why you're even more guarded and secretive than you used to be."

"Jason is a part of my personal life. I had nothing to compel me to share that information about my relationship with him to you."

"Nothing except the fact that I thought you and I were friends," Lily disagreed with the artist. "Nothing except that fact that my husband is your boss and thinks of you as practically his daughter."

Elizabeth worked for Sonny Corinthos? She was neck deep in the mob and tied to them more than professionally? Suddenly, the blonde understood why it was so important for her to carry a semi-automatic handgun around with her wherever she went.

"I knew that you'd disapprove of my relationship with Jason," the woman beside him explained. "I knew that both you and Sonny would try to stop me from seeing him."

"Of course we would," the wife and mother stated vehemently. "He's a married man, and you're, apparently, his mistress."

Speaking up for the first time, the physician faced off against an irate Lily. "Do not attempt to judge something you do not understand. You have no idea what Elizabeth is to me or what I mean to her."

"It doesn't matter what you are to each other," the older woman contradicted him, "because your relationship is wrong." Addressing Elizabeth once again, she warned, "and don't think that I won't tell Michael about this. He's my husband, and we have no secrets."

"I highly doubt he tells you everything, Lily," the accountant flippantly remarked.

"He tells me about the things that matter, and this," she gestured towards the two of them. "This matters."

Pivoting around in her designer shoes, the appalled and disparaging wife and mother stalked out of the room without saying another word. Their secret affair was no longer a secret, and Jason found himself wondering just how much longer they would be able to stay together without the entire town knowing. Smirking to himself, he helped Elizabeth down off the counter. If his wife knew about the scene that had just transpired, she would be livid. Discretion, apparently, was not his strong suit.

Sonny Corinthos was nervous. He had gone head to head with some of the most vicious men of the underworld, rival mob bosses, enforcers, ruthless bodyguards, he had ordered hits on despicable drug lords and fired the shot himself to murder the leaders of prostitution rings, and he daily dealt with the personal ramifications of his lifestyle, putting the safety of his family and his employees ahead of everyone and everything else. He never traveled anywhere without a weapon on his person, he was surrounded by guards, and his penthouse and arsenal of Towncars and limousines were all bullet proof. However, despite his kill or be killed attitude and his cold and impersonal persona when dealing with business, there was no one in the world who could make him more edgy than one petite Elizabeth Imogene Webber.

Her words cut him quicker and deeper than his wife's, her barbs and accusations perfectly timed and aimed for maximum damage. Her harsh glares could freeze even the most potent man's heart, stilling it and making the man tense with worry. The crime lord knew that she was swift to close her emotions off, shutting him and anyone else out who may, at one point, hurt her. In the blink of an eye, his accountant could completely disengage, and he would miss her in his life, no matter how disappointed he may be with her.

Needing to discuss the unacceptable information Lily had shared with him the night before, he had, unbeknownst to her, called a meeting with the younger woman early that morning, but, instead of asking her to join him for breakfast as he usually did, they were meeting in his office at the warehouse, an office he used strictly for the rather unsavory aspects of his _business_. Despite the fact that Elizabeth was his accountant for all aspects of his livelihood, Sonny attempted to shield her from the most objectionable portions of his life, especially since, over the years, she had come to mean more to him than any of his other employees; she had become a part of his family, and, just as his own daughter would get a lecture if she was engaging in the brunette's current behavior, Elizabeth was going to listen to his concerns, and they were going to come to some sort of understanding. At least, that's what the mafia don hoped.

With a soft knock on his thick, wooden door, the guard he had ordered to escort the artist to his office alerted Sonny to the fact that Elizabeth had arrived, leaving him with no more time to organize his thoughts and prepare his speech. Rather unceremoniously, she entered, glowering in his direction. Dressed as she always was in a pair of black pants, a black dress shirt, and heeled boots, the young woman sat down rigidly in one of the chairs placed before his desk.

"If I'm allowed one last request," she quipped acerbically, meeting his gaze head on, "I would ask that you wait a few days before fitting me for a pair of cement shoes. I just painted my toenails last night."

He was quick to chastise her. "Elizabeth, this is no laughing matter."

"I couldn't agree more, Sonny," she returned callously. "After all, kidnapping is a criminal offense."

"You wouldn't."

"You of all people should know what the human being is capable of when pushed to their limit." Sighing, the accountant continued, "as a father, as a husband, and as a businessman, I respect you, but, as a friend, you obviously have no respect for me, because, otherwise, we would not be meeting like this. That said, if you force my hand, I can guarantee that you won't like the results."

"Why are you doing this? Is he really worth straining our relationship?"

"Should it matter whether or not he's worth it," she challenged. "As I told Lily, Jason is a part of my personal life. My association with him is not affecting my work, so what I may or may not do with him is none of your concern."

"You're right," the employer agreed, "he is not affecting our professional connection, but his presence is upsetting our friendship."

"If you would have come to me as a friend to discuss this rationally, that would have been one thing, Sonny, but, instead, you send one of your men to break into my home, to bring me against my will to meet with you, and you treat me just like a piece of scum one of your flunkies picked up off the streets. You're the one who made this a business exchange, not me."

"Would you have consented though if I had asked to meet with you as your friend?"

"I guess we'll never know now, will we?"

She went to stand up, but his next words stopped her halfway through the action. "Before you go, let me say this. I don't approve of what you're doing. He's a married man, and, although you are not personally cheating on anyone, you're helping him commit adultery. To make matters worse, he and his wife have a seven year old daughter. You of all people should know what your relationship could do to that little girl."

"We're being careful."

"Don't you think that your parents said the same exact thing," he pressed, knowing that trying to get through to Elizabeth by using the pain her family had caused her was a cheap shot, but he took it anyway. "And where exactly do you think this relationship is going to go? Do you think that he's going to eventually leave his wife, take his daughter, and marry you?"

"Marriage means nothing to me," she snapped, moving forward to sit at the edge of her seat.

"Obviously, since you're helping him break his vows with little to no thought of the consequences," Sonny pointed out. "To put it bluntly, what you're doing is wrong. It's wrong in the eyes of the church, it's wrong in the eyes of society, and it's wrong in the eyes of both his family and your friends."

"But it feels right to me," the artist contradicted, "and no one and no corporation disguised as a religion is going to tell me what I should or shouldn't do, whom I should or shouldn't be with. Jason doesn't love his wife, he's miserable living in that house with the expectations of his family hanging over him, and, by being with me, he's finally happy and free to be the person he wants to be. I'm not going to take that away from him, and I'm not going to take that away from me, simply because a man who considers taking others' lives a strategic business tactic disapproves of my behavior. You, of all people, do not have the right to pass judgment on me."

"Don't you think that's slightly hypocritical of you, Elizabeth," he challenged her. "I know for a fact that you carry a gun."

"I do carry a gun, but it's for protection only, and I've never killed another person in self-defense or otherwise. Does it bother me that you have? To be frank, no, it doesn't. I realize that, in your world, the rules are different, that they have to be, and that you're as good of a man as you can possibly be, but, in the eyes of your precious church, murder is still murder, no matter how justified the action may be. So, until your hands are clean, do not sit behind your blood splattered desk and look down upon me for being with a man who's trapped in an unhappy marriage."

Cocking his head to the side, Sonny narrowed his obsidian eyes in her direction. "Are you threatening me?"

"I am," she confessed unrepentantly. "Either let this go and leave my relationship with Jason alone, or I'll quit. Trust me, it'll be a lot easier for me to find another job than it will be for you to find another accountant who can do what I have done and continue to do for you."

"You'd do that," the mob boss questioned. "You'd give up your entire life, your friends, hell, your identity, for some guy?"

Rising, Elizabeth moved towards the door before stopping and facing him once again. For her parting words, she said, "you and what I do for you do not make up my identity. I'd still be me without you, your family, or your organization in my life. As for your opinion of Jason, he's not just some guy." She shrugged her shoulders unapologetically. "He's my guy."

With that, she left, closing the door behind her on her way out of the private office. Like many of their meetings, the diminutive brunette left Sonny speechless. Their meeting had not gone as he had planned, but that did not surprise him. What did was the fact that his accountant's relationship with the town Golden Boy was not a passing fling or an association of convenience. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth Webber had allowed herself to fall in love, and, even if she didn't realize it yet herself, the way she felt for Jason Quartermaine could only have one possible result: heartache on her part. Despite their current rift, he would be there for her when the smoke cleared.

In fact, he rationalized, it might be better for her, easier for her, if he moved up the heartache, found a way to dissolve her relationship with the doctor before it could progress any further and become any deeper. To do that though, he would have to hold another meeting, this time with the man his young, impetuous friend had fallen for, and, when he did, Jason Quartermaine would have no idea what kind of mess he had gotten himself into. After all, no one messed with Sonny Corinthos' family, and, to him, his wife, and his children, Elizabeth Webber was just that.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Eh. So, there's not much to say with this chapter other than the fact that I feel it is lacking a certain element of je ne se qua. However, I've been working on it since 11:00 this morning, and I'm sick of it. Blech. Now you get to deal with it, and, hopefully, you'll like it better than I do. :) Anyway, without further ado, here's the next post for this story. Enjoy... as much as it is possible._

Charlynn

**Chapter Six  
****Getting the Green Light**

Sometimes it really sucked sleeping with… dating… _falling for?_... a doctor, especially when she herself was so busy. It was bad enough with Elizabeth's schedule. With the art gallery, which was more than just a place to sell one-of-a-kind pieces of art, due to open in only a short amount of time, she was constantly on the go, leaving her with few chances to be with Jason, but, add on top of that some unforeseen complications on his part, and they had gone an entire weekend without once getting to meet. There had been no impromptu meals, no lazy nights spent in bed, and even their phone conversations were quick, efficient, and to the point. To make matters worse, she still had not gotten the opportunity to show off her tattoo, so, not only were her fingers itching to touch the man who occupied most of her spare thoughts, not only were her lips thirsting to feel his underneath her own, and not only were her eyes begging for a chance to run themselves up and down Jason's form, preferably his naked one, but, now, the little, inked figurine sitting low on her abdomen and underneath her right hip bone was burning to be revealed.

Deciding enough was enough, the accountant had set a plan into motion, determined to prove that the good doctor was not the only one between the two of them who could come up with a wickedly impertinent plot. To start off with, when her alarm had gone off early that Monday morning, she hadn't hit the snooze button; instead, she had quickly showered and got dressed, arriving to work an hour ahead of her usual schedule. She had made phone calls, punched numbers into her calculator, and signed off on paperwork more professionally and proficiently than ever in the past, and, as a treat, she had informed her few employees that she was going out for lunch that afternoon, except, instead of having food for her midday meal, she planned to have Jason.

In her car, which was luckily decked out with tinted bullet proof windows like any good mob-mobile would be, she had changed, donning a simple pair of blue scrubs, a white doctor's coat, and Rivers Cuomo glasses. Contrary to her normal style, she had let her hair go curly that morning, so she could use the body and natural waves of her chestnut locks to aid her in her disguise. Satisfied that she looked unobtrusive enough to get past the nurses' desk and into Jason's office with detection, she had set off for the hospital, barely maintaining her excitement and barely managing to follow the speed limit. After all, it would be just her luck that she would get pulled over for speeding and end up in lock up, being forced to call Sonny's lawyer to bail her out, and her plan was too important to her to take a side trip to the local precinct for a round of 'let's pin all the recent unsolved cases upon the little accountant packing heat.' Although, on second thought, she had to admit to herself that the handcuffs could be fun, and the idea of conjugal visits did hold a certain wicked appeal.

And, so, as she made her way towards her very own pediatrician, a doctor who examined and healed her body like no one else, Elizabeth's mind started to wander into very dangerous territory, and she was not one to stop a little innocent fantasizing. By the time she found herself standing in front of Jason's closed door, her heart was racing, her palms were sweaty, and her body was already humming with desire. Aroused and unashamed, she knocked quickly before letting herself into the office, silently locking the door behind her.

His back was towards her, and, without turning around, he asked, "can I help you?"

"Yes, Doctor Quartermaine," the artist answered, stifling her laughter and attempting to disguise her voice, "I'm hoping you will be able to. I was wondering if you'd be willing to consult on a case with me."

"What are the symptoms?"

"Well," she revealed, sliding her way towards him but refusing herself the chance to touch him, "the patient's… ailment started out simply enough. Loneliness, insomnia, and rapid breathing sometimes at night when she was in bed, but it's progressed quickly. Now, she's suffering from an elevated heart rate, her skin is clammy and flushed, so I think she might be suffering from a fever, her entire body has been wracked with fine, breathless tremors, and she has this ache inside of her, deep inside of her, and I'm afraid, Doctor…" She paused long enough to return her voice to normal. "That you are the only one who can cure her."

Apparently, he was up for her little game, because, when Jason turned around in his chair, he never once said anything to acknowledge her presence. Instead, he kept up the ruse, pretending to go along with her performance, and it was only his eyes, his wonderfully hypnotic, perilously bright blue eyes that told her he knew exactly what she was trying to do and that he'd willingly return the favor.

"What kind of treatment have you tried so far?"

"Visualization and some at-home, solo physical therapy," Elizabeth replied briskly, amusing herself with how rapidly she could think of answers with such blatant sexual connotations.

"I see," the pediatrician stated contemplatively, and she could tell by the spark of awareness that had illuminated his face that he knew exactly what she had been trying to say. Startling her, he stood up from his desk abruptly, moving to stand directly in front of her, mere inches separating their vigorously breathing chests. "However, I think we're going to have to take a more hands on approach. This patient is going to need my personal attention and all the TLC I can give her. First," he instructed while lifting his hands to grip the surgical coat Elizabeth was wearing, "we need to strip her of all her clothes."

As his fingers made quick work of her scrubs, literally ripping them off her quivering form, she continued to play along. "You're right, Doctor. They might be tainted, preventing the patient from being cared for properly."

"And we certainly wouldn't want that."

"No," the accountant moaned when Jason stripped her of the final barrier of clothing, a pair of powder blue lacy boyshorts, "we wouldn't."

"Plus," he added, lifting her up off the ground and sitting her on top of his desk, "I think we need to sweat out the disease, push it out of the patient's system."

Nodding swiftly, she agreed, "sweating is good." Blinding reaching behind her, the brunette attempted to clear off the work space as best as she could, not carrying that files of organized paperwork, expensive collectables, and picture frames holding photos of Jason's daughter were falling and crashing onto the tiled floor. Lifting her languid, lust filled lids, she found the man she had come to the hospital to seduce preparing to return the favor. As his shaking hands pushed down his own pants, she practically purred in contentment, leaning back against the desk to offer herself to him, and sighing repeatedly, "very, very good."

"I also think," the physician added as he readied himself at her entrance, "that a deep tissue massage is needed." And, with that, he pushed his way inside her, filling her, completing her, satisfying her completely with that single action.

Their coupling was fast, hard, and utterly unforgiving, and Elizabeth found herself blossoming under the less than gentle touch. She had always craved excitement and danger, but, until she had met Jason, she had always assumed she would find that by living on the edge and by refusing to settle down. Instead, the artist was quickly learning that true danger came when one risked their heart and not their life. Death, in a perverse way, was easy. It was quick, it was lasting, and it was pretty hard to look back and have regrets once you were dead… or so she believed, but, by risking her heart, opening it up to someone, and giving them that power over her, she found out what true peril was. Surviving that, getting to live another day to face another challenge with the threat of sheer heartbreak hanging over her head, gave Elizabeth a sense of exhilaration and thrill that no gun and no one night stand had ever been able to give her. Having Jason in her life was the greatest rush of all.

Sprawled out on the cool floor of his office, she lounged peacefully in his arms, enjoying the contrary sensations of Jason's heated and glistening body pressed up against hers while the tiles below them chilled her dewy form. Their breathing had finally returned to normal, but neither of them made a move to stand up or to get dressed; they were perfectly content where they were. Seductively, he trailed his left hand up and down arm, brushing the backs of his fingers against the sensitive skin from her shoulder to her wrist. In fact, she was so comfortable in his embrace, she almost forgot why she had been so eager to see him in the first place.

Squirming away from him, she swung a leg over his waist and sat up, effectively trapping Jason underneath her as she straddled him. "I have something you need to see."

"Mmm," the doctor agreed mischievously, his gaze already traveling up and down her nude and exposed form. "I really like this. I think we should have show and tell more often."

When his hands reached out to pull her back down on top of him so he could kiss her, she pushed his advances away. "Quit," Elizabeth ordered him. "I'm being serious right now." Sobering quickly, he simply remained still beneath her, watching her, waiting for her to do or say whatever it was she needed to. "Remember that surprise I told you about…"

"Your tattoo," he answered, immediately becoming intrigued and propping himself up on his elbows. "That's right, between my emergency cases this weekend and your already hectic workload, I didn't get to see it yet, and, just now, you had me too distracted to remember."

"It's right here," the accountant displayed, arching her back to give him a better view. Without prompting, Jason lifted one hand to caress the design that occupied her otherwise flawless skin low and to the right of her abdomen.

"A ballerina," he breathed out, tracing the faint lines of the whimsical, almost impressionistic figure. Looking back up to meet her gaze, the blonde questioned, "I didn't know that you danced?"

"I don't." Pushing him back so that she could lay down on top of him, Elizabeth sighed and delicately kissed his chest, before explaining. "My Mother was an artist. She met my father when he was on vacation in Europe. They had this whirlwind affair that only really lasted a week, but, by the time he left to go back home to the states, to his wife and children, she was in love with him, and I was on the way. She never told my father about me; she always said that she loved him too much to trap him or ruin his happiness by destroying his family. So, for the first few years of my life, it was just the two of us, and I was happy.

"For my fourth birthday, she planned an entire day for us. Looking back, I realize that we must have been pretty poor. Unknown and undiscovered, my mother's paintings went unsold, so she resorted to cleaning other people's houses to support us, but, as a child, I never realized that she struggled to put food on the table or that when she insisted that we use candles at night it was because our electricity had been shut off. All I knew was that I loved my Mom and that she loved me; nothing else mattered. So, when we went to the park for a picnic and then to an art museum for my birthday instead of having a party where I got lots of presents, I never knew or cared that most kids celebrated the day they were born differently.

"That day, the one when I turned four, she showed me her favorite artist. My Mother was a fan of the impressionists, but, unlike most scholars, she didn't prefer Monet; her first and lasting love when it came to art was Degas. I remember we sat there in front of his paintings in the museum, and, as only a mother could, she explained to me why. She said that Degas' work was more obsessive, more ardent, that you could sense his emotions with every single one of his brushstrokes, that, by focusing on people instead of nature, she felt he was a kindred spirit to her and that he, too, had a passion for both life and love. For hours, we remained there, enchanted by his paintings of ballet dancers. There were my Mother's favorite pieces, and, on that day, they became my favorites as well.

"So," she finished, pushing aside the memories to refocus on the present, "that is why I chose to get a tattoo of a ballerina. It's for Degas, it's for me, because I, too, am an artist, and it's for my Mother."

With his voice low, almost reverent in nature, Jason whispered, "I'd love to meet her."

"Who?"

"Your mother."

"You can't," the brunette denied him, almost at once extricating herself from his embrace and standing up to get dressed. "I need to get back to the gallery. Can I borrow a pair of your scrubs until I get back to my car?"

"Of course," he answered without thought, "but why?"

Believing he wanted to know why she had to leave or simply trying to avoid his true question, the accountant responded, "my lunch break is over."

"That's not what I meant, Elizabeth." Coming up to her side, the pediatrician reached out, grabbing her arms and making her stand still and face him. "What I meant was, why can't I meet your mother?"

Unfeelingly, she replied, "because she's dead. She was already sick when we went to the museum for my fourth birthday, and she died a few weeks later. That day, when she told me about Degas, that was the last happy day we ever spent together." Pulling away from him, she continued to put her clothes back on. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I really have to go."

She wasn't trying to build the wall back up around herself to keep Jason out; she did it simply to keep herself together. She had work to do that afternoon, a lot of it, and she couldn't afford to lose herself in the past or her memories. Once she was ready to leave though, she realized that she had been too harsh, so, as a compromise, after kissing the man she felt more for than she would allow herself to admit, she said, "some other time, okay?" His brow wrinkled in confusion, so she explained. "Some other time when I'm not as stressed and we're not in a very busy hospital, I'll tell you more about my mother." Offering him a small smile, she added, "I even have a few pictures from when I was really little, so you can meet my Mom the only way I can introduce you to her and, at the same time, get to see how awkward and chubby I was as a kid. It'll be fun."

"Yes," Jason agreed, kissing her one last time before opening the door for her, "it will be."

After he had calmed down, gone home and discussed the matter with his wife, Sonny had realized that trying to force or scare Jason away from Elizabeth wouldn't work. In his years living and running a business in Port Charles, he had stumbled across the old man a few times and knew that the Quartermaines were too mulish, much like himself, to ever back down from a challenge, especially when they wanted something as much as he could only imagine the younger man wanted Elizabeth. The mob boss wasn't naïve; he recognized the fact that his accountant was a beautiful woman, an intelligent, oddly endearing, beautiful woman, one who would be easy to fall in love with. While he had never felt more for the brunette than friendship and fatherly concern, he knew his children's pediatrician felt otherwise. So, with that in mind, he had taken a few days to brainstorm, to think of something he could tempt the blonde with to lure him away from Elizabeth, and, as he spread his linen napkin across his lap that evening, a permanent smile etched across his handsome, dimpled face, he felt confident that he had come up with an offer, to be cliché, that Jason Quartermaine would not be able to refuse.

He waited for the doctor to take his seat before he spoke. "I'm pleased you accepted my invitation to dinner."

"Well, I was intrigued," the younger man admitted. "Not only are you my girlfriend's boss, but you also asked me to meet you in the restaurant my family owns. To be blunt, Mr. Corinthos…"

"Please, call me Sonny."

"Alright then," the physician agreed, "Sonny, to be blunt, I knew you were up to something, and I figured it would be better to face you head on than allow you to come after me from behind and catch me unaware."

The crime lord had not expected his dining partner to be so candid about his extra-marital affairs, but who was he to argue? Subtlety had never been his strong suit. "First of all, Elizabeth is not your girlfriend; she's your mistress."

"How I choose to refer to my relationship with the woman I am involved with is none of your business."

"You see, that's where you're wrong," he argued, prolonging the moment by reaching out to pick up his glass of scotch. After taking a robust drink, he continued. "I've known Elizabeth now for almost seven years. You've known her for what, a few months? I know about her past, I know about her family, and I know her well enough to know that you can't say the same things."

Stubborn, Jason countered, "I know enough to realize that she would hate the fact that you went behind her back and asked me to meet with you this evening."

Grinning, once again, the mafia don admitted, "touché."

"And let me tell you something else I know about Elizabeth," the doctor pressed, unwilling to give in now that he finally had the upper hand. "It's not important that she hasn't shared her past with me yet, because, as you should know since you claim to be so close to her, she's not someone who lives in the before; she's focused solely on the here and now, and, there, I'm firmly placed in her life."

"You make another good point," Sonny allowed, "and, because we both understand the woman that Elizabeth is, I find it futile to discuss why she is not bothered by the fact that you are very much a married man. However, that said, I do find it advantageous to me to discuss the reasons why you have no qualms cheating on your wife." Without waiting for the blonde to respond, he held up his hand to stop him and proceeded to answer his own question. "You're unhappy in your marriage. You married a woman you have nothing in common with, a woman who does not understand you. When the two of you spend time together, you fight with her and she either treats you with indifference or belittles you. You hate your job, the pointlessness of helping those who really don't need your help, and you wish for the chance to do more, to somehow find a way to assist those who can't afford health insurance or proper medical attention. You feel trapped, suffocated, but, among other things, being with Elizabeth makes you feel free."

By looking at the man across from him, the mob boss knew that he had struck a cord, and, by observing Jason, he discovered that the pediatrician was uncomfortable with his life being discussed so openly with a man he held to be nothing more than a stranger. He was fighting to remain in control, to mask his emotions and the sudden surge of temper he felt when he asked, "how do you know all of this about me?"

"Haven't you heard," Sonny teased him. "I have both the money and the resources to get anything I want, and what I wanted was to know everything about you. People talk, Mr. Quartermaine, especially when provided with the proper incentive. In fact, you weren't hard to figure out at all."

"And the purpose of this little exercise of yours was to what, to make me feel vulnerable and at your mercy?"

"Of course not," the older man denied. "In fact, my motives are quite to the contrary. You see, I wanted to know everything about you so that when I came here tonight I'd be able to give you exactly what you wanted in return for you giving me what I want."

Prompting him, Jason demanded, "and that would be?"

"In exchange for you agreeing to stop seeing Elizabeth, I'll build you a free clinic. I'll pay and smooth the way for all its permits, I'll employ my own construction company to build it for you. I'll staff it, stock it, and even advertise its opening. I'll provide you with a suitable stipend for operating it for me, but, when anyone looks at the paperwork, it'll appear as if you own it. No one will ever be able to tie the clinic to my name."

Narrowing his gaze, the doctor scrutinized Sonny closely. Finally, he spoke up. "So you think that you can bribe me into giving up the second best thing that's ever happened to be, outshined only by the birth of my daughter?"

"Bribery is such an unpleasant word," the underworld kingpin laughed, his amusement doing nothing to mask his frustration and wrath. "I prefer to think of it as 'if you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours,' as two _friends_ helping each other out."

Pushing back his chair, the younger man stood, tossing aside his napkin. Glaring at the mob boss, he stated vehemently, "fuck you, Mr. Corinthos. My back doesn't need scratched, and, even if it did, I have a woman waiting for me back at her studio who would gladly scratch it for me without drawing any blood."

Without saying another word, Sonny watched as his children's physician walked away from the table. Despite himself, he had to give the Quartermaine golden boy credit. When pushed, he knew how to stand up for himself. He was loyal to those he felt deserving of his loyalty, unwavering and resolute, a good father, and he could not be forced or coerced into something he didn't want to. If he didn't know better than to ask, Jason was the type of man the don would want working for him; if he wasn't afraid for the young woman he cared for like she was his own daughter, Jason was the type of man Sonny would have wanted Elizabeth to be with, but, unfortunately, he was married, and there was nothing more complicated than a separation when money, power, and a family heir were involved.

Another Thursday art lesson had come and gone, and Elizabeth had impressed him, once again, with a creative and yet easy project that she brought in for his patients. That evening, they had made black magic umbrellas and flowers that the children could take back to their rooms to hang up on the windows and walls, both to cheer up the dreary hospital interior and to show off their skills as an artist. But, instead of cleaning up and rushing out so that they could be alone, the accountant he cared so much for was helping one child with a special piece of artwork, a large, intricately cut out, personalized rose that the little girl was planning on giving to her great-grandmother. As he had promised himself, Jason had finally brought his daughter to meet Elizabeth. Not taking his meeting with Sonny Corinthos to heart, he had pushed on in his relationship with the young brunette, deciding it was time to merge the two most important aspects of his life.

While Elizabeth had been helping the terminally ill pediatric patients, Sydney had made him a very proud father, insisting that she could work on her own art piece at home and helping Elizabeth with the other children, even the ones who were older than herself. However, the artist had surprised her after the kids had gone back to their rooms by claiming she deserved a private lesson since she was so thoughtful and compassionate towards others. So, an hour later than he had planned to still be at the hospital, Jason sat mesmerized as he watched the woman he loved play, paint, and talk with the little girl he adored.

"What kind of pictures do you make," his daughter asked of Elizabeth.

"Well, I tend to paint things that are important to me, things that, when I look at my work fifty years from now, I'll want to be able to remember everything about down to the minutest of details."

Innocently, his seven year old asked, "have you ever painted my Dad?"

Realizing she had no idea just how close he and Elizabeth were, the doctor had to stifle a chuckle when he observed the artist's face turn pink from embarrassment as she struggled to find an answer. Finally, she questioned, "what do you mean?"

"Well, my Dad is your friend," Sydney reasoned, "and you're supposed to love your friends, right?"

"Right," the brunette agreed.

"So that means that you should paint a picture of my Daddy."

"I've never thought of it that way," Elizabeth stated, grinning at the little girl beside her, "but, now that you mention it, maybe I should. If I did, would you want to hang on to it for me?"

"Really?"

"Sure," the accountant urged. "After all, I happen to know for a fact that you're the most important thing in this whole world to your Dad, and I have a sneaky suspicion he's just as important to you. So, if anyone should have a portrait of him, it's you."

"What would he look like in it," his daughter wanted to know. "Would you paint him in his hospital pajamas?"

"In his scrubs, no, I don't think so." Teasingly, Elizabeth studied him, making Jason roll his eyes at her. Eventually, she went on to say, "I think I would paint him on a motorcycle." Surprised, the pediatrician flashed his gaze towards the impish brunette to find her smiling widely. "I bet you didn't know that your Dad can drive a bike, did you, Sydney?"

The seven year old giggled. "Grandfather would have a tantrum if he found out."

"Oh, then maybe we should show him the portrait," the accountant suggested wickedly, making his little girl laugh some more. "I've always found it to be a lot of fun to shock my grandparents."

"Elizabeth," the blonde father found himself warning his girlfriend.

"What," she asked innocently, ignoring his admonition and turning back to Sydney.

"Does your Grandmother like roses, too," his daughter wanted to know. "And does your Grandfather's chin shake like a turkey's when he's mad?"

Honestly, the artist answered, a note of melancholy entering her voice, "I really don't know. It's been a long time since I've seen my grandparents. Who knows what they're like now."

"So you don't live with your family like my Daddy and I do?"

"No, I don't," Elizabeth replied, shaking her head to emphasize her point. In an attempt to explain her non-existent relationship with her family, she queried, "do you know what it's like to be different, to be unique?"

"Aunt Tracy says that my cousin Dillon is different."

"Okay, well, I'm different, too. I'm unlike anyone else in my family, and they had a hard time understanding me. Because they didn't understand me, sometimes we would fight."

Working away diligently, his daughter kept etching at the rose she was making for her great-grandmother, her little pink tongue sticking out between her lips. Never once looking away from her artwork, she laughed. "That's silly."

"I know," the brunette agreed with her, "but, instead of fighting with my family, I decided to move away and live on my own."

"Like my cousins Brooklyn and Justus?"

Needing help, Elizabeth looked to Jason, and, silently, he nodded to answer her unspoken question. Responding, she replied, "yes, like your cousins."

"Do you visit your family on Christmas like Brooklyn, and do you go home for board meetings like Justus?"

"Nope," the accountant denied. "I found a new family, and I go and see them on the holidays."

"She spends time with my wife and I and our kids," a fourth voice joined their small group from the doorway. As Elizabeth, Jason, and Sydney all looked up towards the new arrival, Sonny pressed on. "I've known Elizabeth for many years now, and she's become like a daughter to me. She's a part of my family."

"Okay," the doctor watched as his seven year old smiled brightly at the idea of her new friend belonging somewhere. Holding her hand out to the dark complexioned man across from her, she said, "hello, sir. I'm Riegal Sydney Quartermaine. What's your name?"

"Michael Corinthos."

Curiosity sparkled in his little girl's blue eyes. "Are you Lola's Daddy?"

Joining them at the table and reaching out for some paper and some crayons, the mob boss seemed to effortlessly blend in and fit into their little group. "I am," he answered.

Satisfied, Sydney went back to her etching, forgetting the man now sitting beside her. Needing answers though, Jason wondered out loud, "why are you here?"

"I came to tell the two of you," Sonny glanced between both the physician and the artist, "that, although I don't agree with what you're doing, I won't fight you or stand in your way. This… whatever it is you're calling it, it will be revealed sooner or later though, and, when it does, I need to be there for Elizabeth. I can't do that if I'm fighting with her. So, with that said, all I ask is that the two of you are careful." Dropping his gaze towards the oblivious child in the room, he added, "especially now. You're playing with fire, and someone is going to get burned. I just hope it's no one in this room."

And, with that, the four of them fell silent. Although they all had individual thoughts on their minds, no one felt the need to voice their concerns, and, even if they did, it would have been unnecessary. After all, they were collective fears, fears they all shared. Instead, they focused on their artwork, enjoying the simple pleasures in life while they still could.

As was their nightly ritual, Jason was tucking his daughter into bed later that evening. Sometimes, he would then retire to his own room, locking himself away from the rest of his crazy but, yet, somehow charming family, but more often than not, for the past couple of months, he would leave the house entirely after his little girl was asleep, making his way to Elizabeth's.

"Daddy," Sydney started, sounding almost unsure of what she wanted to ask him. After several seconds of hesitation though, she pressed, "could we be Elizabeth's family, too?"

He knew he would have to deny her, and that he would have to find a way to explain his refusal, but, first, the doctor wanted to hear what his seven year old had to say. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, if Mr. Corinthos is like her Dad, and his wife is like her Mom, and Lola and Mat are like her sister and brother, that means that she doesn't have any aunts or uncles or cousins or grandparents, and we have lots of them. Can't I share with her, please, Daddy?"

Sitting beside his daughter, Jason pulled her into his arms, hugged her, and placed a tender kiss at her crown. "Things don't work that way, honey. You can't just meet a person and decide you're going to be their family, but you can decide to be their friend, and, sometimes, having friends is just as important as having a big, extended family."

"But you can chose your friends," his little girl pointed out astutely. "Family you can't. I know so. Cousin Ned told me."

The physician had to chuckle at that. Despite all his complaints, he knew that his cousin wouldn't trade the Quartermaines for anything or anyone else. However, the older man did have a point, and so did his daughter. "You're right," he told the seven year old, "but I have a feeling that Elizabeth wants to be your friend, too."

"So does that mean we can see her all the time now? Will she want to come over and play with me? Can I show her my pony and invite her over to have tea with me and Grandmother?"

"Grandmother and I," the blonde corrected his little girl.

Ignoring him, however, Sydney simply rushed on with ideas. "And I can go to her studio, and she can teach me more about painting. We can make lots and lots of pictures, and I can hang them all over my room. And, maybe, I can make some pictures for Elizabeth, too, so she can hang them at her house as well. And then we can go to the park, and the zoo, and she promised she'd take me to the art museum someday. Can I go, Daddy, can I?"

"Of course you can."

Yawning, his only child snuggled deeper into her bed, asking for one more thing. "And can I be an artist someday, too, just like Elizabeth?"

Climbing up from his perch on her bed, the pediatrician turned off the bedside lamp and kissed his daughter goodnight one more time. "Sweetheart, you can be anything you want. I love you."

"I love you, too, Daddy," Sydney whispered. "Don't let the bedbugs bite."

As he closed to the door to the seven year old's room, he made his way down the hall towards the stairs that would carry him closer to the woman he loved. While he knew there were no bedbugs in the accountant's apartment, he did find himself hoping that Elizabeth might bite him once or twice. So, with a chuckle and a jaunty whistle, he left his family's mansion for the evening, perfectly happy for the first time in years.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven  
****Make, Break, or Shake Up?**

She was changing, and, for the first time in her relatively short life, change didn't scare her. Before, to Elizabeth, change had always meant loss, grief, and insecurity. When her Mom died, her whole world had changed. She had moved to a different continent, she had met people who claimed to be her family despite the fact that she didn't know them, and she had existed without explanation as to why the one person in her life that she loved the most wasn't there for her anymore. At five, everything had changed again. The nanny she had grown to love and trust was dismissed, and she was sent off to her first of many boarding schools. Eventually, over the years, she adjusted to her constantly every-changing existence. She learned to never become too attached to or too comfortable in one place, because, just as she grew to look forward to her home and her life, her _father _and _his family _would swoop in, decree that she was leaving, and she would be back where she started – alone, dismissed, and miserable.

It had gotten to the point where the only thing that felt normal was constant change, but, instead of allowing her only parent left in the world to dictate what that change could consist of, Elizabeth took her fate into her own hands, leaving behind her only blood relatives to forge a life for herself out of nothing. If she sat down long enough to really and truly think about the world she had created for herself, she would have been forced to admit that the reason she moved to a new city and took on a new identity every year was because change was now comfortable for her. But it was forced changed, it was repetitive, and it was familiar. What was interesting, though, was that she was changing despite her best intentions and doing so without even a conscious effort. That was what made her willingness to reinvent herself so unique. She was doing it for someone else and doing so not because it was necessary but because it wasn't.

The biggest change was the fact that when the year was over, she wasn't planning on relocating as usual. Astonishing herself, the young brunette found that she liked the life she was making in Port Charles. She liked being near Sonny and his family, she liked her tiny, cramped, practically broken studio apartment, and, most importantly, she liked having Jason in her life. Wanting to be with Jason meant wanting to live in Port Charles.

Sonny, Lily, and their children were thrilled. Although, through the assistance of others, she and her boss would continue to expand their art galleries across the country, she wasn't going to be the one to steamroll the projects anymore. Instead, she would be giving the orders and remaining in the shadows as others did the work she once did herself. Of course, she would continue with her accounting duties, but, with the extra free time, those closest to her in life were pushing her to explore her own art at a more professional level, challenging her, daring her to share her creativity with the rest of the world. At first, their insistence – coming during an awkward yet touching dinner between her, Jason, Sonny, and Lily – had annoyed her, but, eventually, as more dinners occurred, she realized they were only pushing her because they cared.

It was an odd feeling to get used to, but, as she changed, as she grew as a woman and as an adult, she was trying to, and, in trying to, she was learning to care back just as much towards those who cared for her.

However, it was the smaller, more insignificant and perhaps less noticeable changes in her life that made Elizabeth smile to herself. First, there was color. Everywhere she turned, color seemed to suddenly be infused in her life. After a restless night of little sleep, she had greeted the day with a smile, determined to remodel her apartment. Sonny had forced her to take a week off, and, while Jason put in as many hours as he could at the hospital so they could have an entire weekend to be with each other, she had taken advantage of the time alone that June day months ago and had painted her studio a bright, cheerful shade of yellow. Suddenly, after her home was rejuvenated with a splash of color, her entire world became tinted in new, previously lacking hues. Her paintings seemed to become brighter, she experimented… only to go back to classic red with her nail polish, and she had even attempted to bring in some more color to her wardrobe, adding bursts of blue, green, purple, and red to her otherwise stark ensembles. Sonny had been pleased, Lily had been excited, and Jason had been turned on.

She liked her boyfriend's reaction the best.

She had also allowed herself to finally admit her feelings for Jason. The whispered words came during a spur of the moment confession, startling her more than they did him. They had been in the park with his daughter. Sydney had been running around the grassy meadow, playing with bubbles and ignoring the two adults, the man beside her had been a few seconds shy of falling asleep, and she had been simply mesmerized by the moment, by the sheer strength of her joy, that the feelings she kept to herself, buried deeply inside of her heart so that no one could see them or rip them away from her, came gushing forward, falling from her lips before she could stop them. But, after seeing the happiness her confession brought to Jason and after hearing him return the sentiment, she was glad for her momentary loss of control. It didn't happen often, but, when it did, obviously it was for a reason.

Once she realized how strong her emotions were for the only man in her life, Elizabeth permitted herself to feel more for everyone and everything else, starting first and foremost with the little girl who had so captured her attention and interest the first day she had met her but whom she had been holding herself back from, keeping her heart protected from the child that wasn't truly hers to love. But Sydney was impossible to deny. Her brilliant baby blue eyes, eyes so much like her father's, her infectious laughter, and her ability to take all the amateur artist's pain away with a simple hug quickly won over Elizabeth, and, before she knew it, Sydney was the second most important person in her life. At one point, the most important person to Elizabeth had been herself, but, after just a few months with the father and daughter pair, everything had changed.

There was that word again.

Smiling in recognition, the accountant gazed out at the waterfront. The view, to her, was priceless. The sights and sounds of the harbor meant one thing to her: home. From the windows of her studio, the studio that now not only housed her own belongings but also some of Jason's and his daughter's, she could see out over the water. During the summer, the cool breeze that blew off the lake offered her relief, and, now that winter had settled in with the first snowfall of the season, the still unfrozen water made her yearn for steaming cups of hot chocolate, wool socks, and someone to curl up with in bed. For the first time in her life, she had all three.

It was early morning, and, although she could have gone inside _Kelly's_ to wait for Jason, she had decided, instead, to sit on her favorite bench on the docks. Bundled up in a new winter coat, her matching gloves and scarf on to keep away the frigid New York December air, she couldn't help but fidget. Not only did it help keep her warm, but the movement helped distract her from her nerves. The man she loved was coming off a shift at the hospital to meet her so they could go into the gallery together. There would be a holiday party in a couple of weeks, both to celebrate the season and to commemorate the new artists' work that was on display. A few of her own pieces, anonymously, of course, were now hanging up in the gallery, and that was why Jason was going with her to work that morning. He wanted to be the first one to see her paintings framed, matted, and exhibited, and, if she wasn't too embarrassed, she would admit herself that she wanted him to be first to see them, too. After all, his opinion… and Sydney's… were the only two that really mattered to her.

His signature steps coming across the wooden docks alerted her to his presence before she saw him. They were quick, efficient, methodical, born from years of pacing the hallways of General Hospital, and they always had the power to make her smile. Wordlessly, he sat down beside her, taking one of her tiny hands into both of his larger, ungloved ones, rubbing it furiously to help warm the small appendage. "You know," he teased her, his voice low so that, even if someone was passing by, they would be the only two to hear what he had to say. "You shouldn't be out here by yourself. The docks are dangerous."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the sentiment. While some things had changed, others remained exactly the same. He was still the same chivalrous, overly protective, constantly worried about her pain in the ass. And she loved him for it. "I can take care of myself, Quartermaine."

"Of course," he agreed, standing up and offering her his hand to help her up from the bench. "How could I forget? Smith and Wesson, right? It's probably right in one of those back pockets I love to watch so much."

Together, arm in arm, they walked up the stairs, moving towards the bike he had parked just down the alley. That was another thing that had changed. They no longer had to rent a motorcycle when they wanted to go nowhere. Jason now owned one. "Actually, no," the brunette contradicted him, her admission bringing their forward progression to a stop a single riser before they reached the top of the docks. "I decided to quit carrying my gun. Actually, it's packed away in a lock box, hidden behind some blankets in my closet."

Just by looking at him, she could tell that her words had taken him by surprise, that he hadn't been expecting that. Simply put, Jason asked, "why?"

"With you and especially with Sydney, I don't feel comfortable carrying it around anymore." With a self derisive chuckle, they, together, took the last step and proceeded to his bike as she admitted, "I guess I'll just have to settle for my American Express now… like most people."

Normalcy had never felt better. She, Elizabeth Imogene Webber, truly had changed.

She was supposed to have opened the gallery an hour ago, but, still, she felt no inclination to get up, to get dressed, or to go to work. The accountant was quite content to remain where she was, dressed only in her boyfriend's shirt, as they sat together in her leather desk chair. They weren't talking. At that point, words were unnecessary. They weren't too tired to get up, but they were quite comfortable, and, surprisingly, they were barely touching besides the fact that he was holding her in his arms. Both lost in thought, they simply existed together. Occasionally, she would allow herself the pleasure of gliding her fingers up and down his chest, but, most of the time, the two of them remained still.

Their breathing had long since settled, so the only sound that periodically broke through the silence of her office was the shrill ringing of the phone. Some numbers she recognized – mainly Sonny's various different lines as he tried in vain to reach her. Some numbers she didn't. But nothing except perhaps the building burning down around them would have enticed Elizabeth to move away from Jason, because it was in that moment that, for the first time in her life, she felt truly at peace. Being with him so intimately, being accepted by him so freely, made her feel as if she really did belong somewhere. Losing a few commissions and aggravating her boss was well worth what she was gaining by remaining hidden away from the rest of the world that morning.

After showing – and explaining – her paintings to the man she loved, he had done nothing but praise and compliment her. At first, she had believed him to be patronizing her, telling her what he thought she wanted to her, and the effort had pissed her off. As always, her fire had turned them both on, but Jason had been adamant. He had refused to even kiss her until she believed that he honestly enjoyed her artwork. Then his sincerity had made her embarrassed, a rare occurrence, and seeing her blush had made him tease her. After all, that was usually his territory. From that point, they had gone from playful to sweet to downright passionately tender, slowly making their way from the front display room, up the stairs, down the long hallway, and, finally, into her office where they had locked the door to keep anyone and everyone from interrupting them. It had been hot, and, just like when she had seduced him at the hospital, it had held a touch of the illicit, but, to Elizabeth, it had also been special, and she planned on savoring it for as long as she could.

"You know, my wedding anniversary is coming up."

And, just like that, just like a typical man, her boyfriend had managed to ruin the moment. Untwining herself from his embrace, the brunette quickly found her clothes, tossing back to him his shirt she had been wearing and slipping back into her proper business attire. Without a word and despite feeling Jason's gaze on her the entire time, she dressed, even going so far as to reapply a light dusting of makeup and fixing her hair before facing the man she loved and responding to his statement, his unexpectedly hurtful statement. Why, all of a sudden, the fact that he was married to another woman was starting to bother her, Elizabeth didn't know, but, nevertheless, it did. Despite the fact that she had known he was committed, at least legally, to another woman since the very first day she met him, hearing her boyfriend so carelessly discuss his wife and the things he shared with her bothered the young artist more than she cared to admit – more than she cared to show him, too.

Finally, she responded, "and this would concern me why exactly?"

"I don't know," the pediatrician shrugged, standing up to follow her lead and get dressed himself. "I guess I was just making conversation."

"And here I thought I was the one who lacked social graces." Sighing with frustration, Elizabeth glared at him. "Jason, you don't discuss your wedding anniversary with your mistress."

Forcefully, he argued with her. "You are not my mistress."

"Oh really," she challenged, hands on cocked hips as she fixed him with an unwavering, perplexed glare. "Then what exactly do you consider me?"

"You're Elizabeth. You're the woman I love."

"That may be," she agreed with him, doing her best to hide her irritation but failing miserably, "but you also can't deny the facts. You're married, I'm not you're wife, and you're sleeping with me - all of which, technically, make me your mistress."

With that, she unlocked the door to her office and proceeded to throw it open, wincing slightly when she heard the door handle connect with the plaster of the wall. The collision would leave a dent, and the dent would raise questions with Sonny, something she really didn't want to have to deal with even on one of her best days. As she stalked down the hallway towards the back staircase, she had hoped that Jason wouldn't follow her, but he did. She could hear his steps approaching from behind, gaining on her with every one of his long strides compared to her short, compact ones, and she could imagine the frustration taking over his body - his hands clenching, the muscles in his jaw ticking, and his back ramrod straight. He looked hot mad, but the fact that her mind instantly thought that only made the petite accountant that much more furious.

Reaching the lower level, she strode confidently towards the front door and opened the gallery for business. "I think you should leave."

"Well, I don't, Elizabeth," the doctor argued with her, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I think we should talk about this."

"Alright." Crossing her arms and displaying her well known stubborn streak, she demanded, "talk."

Releasing a harsh breath, Jason visibly deflated before her. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned my wife, and I certainly shouldn't have brought up our anniversary."

"Then why did you," Elizabeth asked, finding herself drawn to him when he held out a hand towards her, silently requesting her to stand closer to him. Once she complied, he led them towards a rather secluded couch in the far corner, lowering them both until they were sitting right next to each other, thighs brushing intimately against one another.

"I guess I was just thinking out loud."

Finding her rage dissipating only to be replaced with her ever undaunted sense of humor, she joked, "that's a nasty habit, Morgan."

"I know."

"And may I ask where this thought process was leading you?"

Locking his striking eyes with her calmer, more restrained, but still just as ardent blue ones, he confessed, "I want to ask her for a divorce."

Now that Elizabeth had not been expecting. Wrinkling her brow in thought, she queried, "what about Sydney? I thought that she was always why you held back in the past."

"She was my reason for staying in my marriage, but she's older now, my wife has never really had any real interest in her, and, when I think about it, wouldn't it be healthier for her to be with at least one happy parent than two miserable ones? In the long run, I think that staying married to my wife would cause Sydney more damage than any divorce ever could."

"That makes a lot of sense," the brunette conceded, smiling up at him with pride in her eyes. "But do you really think your wife will be willing to just give up this perfect life she has created in her mind for the three of you? You're her ride to social success, Jason. Without you, she's just another wealthy divorcee. By you leaving her, she'll lose all her power."

"Unless I make being a wealthy divorcee more appealing than staying married to me." When she cocked her head in confusion, he continued, chuckling softly at her bewilderment. "Right now, I'm still following orders; I'm still living up to my end of the bargain, but, if I suddenly refuse to do what I'm supposed to do, if staying with me will not only make her lose her power but also ruin her reputation, then getting divorced, leaving me behind, and getting a second chance at world domination… or at least Port Charles society domination… will quickly become the more appealing option for my wife."

Eagerly, she demanded to know, "what exactly do you have in mind?"

Instead of answering her though, the pediatrician simply stood up, grabbed his coat, and chucked her playfully under the chin. "A man has to have some secrets, Elizabeth."

Quickly, she stood up to follow him, scrambling after his retreating form. "Where do you think you're going? You can't just leave it at that. You have to tell me what you have planned."

"No I don't."

"Damn it, Jason," she snapped, stomping her foot. "This is not fair."

"Do I need to remind you that you keep secrets from me, too," he asked as he opened the front door to the gallery, letting in a strong, whistling wind. It made her shiver. "First, there was your tattoo. Then you wouldn't let me see the paintings you were working on this summer. Plus, don't forget all those secrets you and Sydney tell each other and keep from me. And, then," he added with a saucy grin, "we can't forget about last week. You kept me in the dark for months about that blindfold and set of handcuffs you were hiding."

"That's different," the artist protested, following him outside into the freezing December morning. "None of that stuff was important. My secrets aren't big like yours."

"Oh, Elizabeth," he mocked, shaking his head in disappoint. "I'm offended. If you don't consider our sex life important or _big _then we have more problems than I thought."

With that, he went to leave, walking down the sidewalk and humming to himself the entire time. As he moved away, she simply stared daggers at his back, wishing fervently for a Jason shaped voodoo doll despite knowing better than to believe that the witchcraft staple would actually work. But, surprising her, he stopped suddenly, turned back around, and faced her.

"What do you think of me buying my wife one of your paintings for an anniversary present? I could ask her for the divorce after she unwraps it and I explain that _my mistress _made it."

"Don't you even think about it," she warned him. "I don't want that woman to ever have another piece of me. She already has you… at least in name. She can't have my art, too, Jason."

Instantly, her words sobered him. "You're right. I'm sorry," he apologized hastily, moving back towards the gallery and her. "It was a stupid idea," he pressed on after taking her into his arms and pulling her into a hug.

"However," she teased him, pulling back to grace him with one of her rare, too bright even for sunglasses smiles. "I wouldn't be against the idea of you buying her someone else's painting or giving her a gift certificate to use here. After all, not even the Quartermaine money is too dirty to be laundered by my hands."

Shaking his head in amusement, he kissed her cheek before walking backwards away from her. "I'll see you later," he called over his shoulder as he retraced his steps back down the sidewalk.

And he most certainly would.

"We need to talk."

The sharp rap of bony knuckles on his open bedroom door along with the crisply spoken words startled Jason slightly, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he remained cool and collected, never once looking up from the desk he was sitting at to formally acknowledge his wife's presence. Her sudden appearance was not a welcome surprise. He had wanted to be perfectly poised when he faced the blonde bitch, he had wanted to have his speech prepared, his face schooled to seem impassive and determined, and he had wanted to make sure that their daughter was safely off to school just in case their discussion turned into an argument and things were said that no child should hear her parents saying about each other or her. However, as he heard her take several uninvited steps into his private suite, Jason had to admit that he was just thankful for the chance to get the inevitable over with so quickly, for, once he asked his wife for a divorce, he would have the rest of his day free to do whatever he wanted. He would have the rest of the day to celebrate with Elizabeth.

"And she willingly steps into my bedroom," he said out loud in a mocking, disbelieving tone. Finally turning to face the woman he had so foolishly married, he quipped, "what is it, a special occasion? If this is your idea of an anniversary present, save it. I'm not interested."

"Please," she scoffed, rolling her eyes as she glanced down and smiled appreciatively at her perfect manicure. "Don't flatter yourself. I just wanted to tell you that there will be no divorce, Jason."

"How did you…?" Shocked by the fact that she was already several steps ahead of him - as always, he couldn't even finish his question.

"If you were seriously trying to catch me off guard with a legal separation, you shouldn't have consulted the family attorney. You know that your Grandfather and Mr. Pierce have lunch at the club once a week. Well, as soon as Edward got wind of this silly little idea of yours, he came to me, and I assured him that I would take care of it… and you… before anything got out of hand." Holding up a lone finger to stem off his next argument, she told him, "and before you go sprouting off about attorney-client privilege, keep in mind that Mr. Pierce is on retainer for the entire Quartermaine family, but it is your Grandfather who pays his rather large stipend."

"I can't believe this."

"I can," his spouse stated with conviction. Taking a seat on a small settee set adjacent from his desk chair, she lounged across the sofa in a confident yet carefree manner. "You might be an intelligent man, Jason, but you're too straightforward, too honorable to ever truly succeed at anything you attempt to do. If it wasn't for me, you'd probably be off in some third world country, exposing yourself to horrendous living conditions and even more horrendous diseases trying to save those who can't save themselves."

"Not everyone is born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Some people," he retorted harshly, glaring at the woman he had shared his life with for most of the last decade, "need the help of others."

"It's called survival of the fittest, Jason," she snapped, returning his frosty glower. "If someone can't take care of themselves, then they're not supposed to be able to survive."

It wasn't the first time in their relationship that his wife had managed to stun him into silence, but it had been quite a few years since she had last managed to. He thought that he had seen her at her worst, that he knew already of her low level of concern for anyone who didn't benefit her small world directly, be he really hadn't. "Who are you?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," the blonde scolded him, standing up from her reclined position to take a firm stance just a few paces to his left. "Besides, right now is not the time for us to be having this theoretical debate. I came to see you with a purpose, to tell you that you will not be divorcing me, and, now that I've accomplished what I set out to do, I'll be leaving now."

"Wait," the pediatrician stopped her from walking out of his room. "You can't just dictate to me what I can and cannot do."

"Why not? I have in the past."

"That was then; this is now, and things have changed."

"Oh, really," the mother of his child challenged, smirking wickedly. "Is that what the slut who has been warming your bed for the past nine months has been telling you? Is this her idea?"

"First of all, I wouldn't recommend throwing verbal stones that could cause your own glass house to come shattering down around you," he warned. "And, secondly, no. For your information, I made this decision on my own, and you're not going to waltz in her and make me change my mind. We will be getting a divorce."

"Alright then." Her quick, no fuss acceptance of his announcement made Jason wary. "If that's what you want, after a long, drawn out, miserable court battle, you can have your divorce, but, before everything is said and done, I'll take your daughter from you."

"No judge in their right mind would ever grant you custody. At best, you're an unfit mother; at worse, you're inhumane."

"We live in a town where mobsters freely walk the streets. If Sonny Corinthos can buy a judge, so can I."

"Yes," he found himself agreeing with his wife's statement, "but, you see, the problem is that you have no money of your own. You blew through your dowry within the first year of our marriage, and, since then, you've been living off my family's money. While they might not want us to get divorced, when push comes to shove, you're just an outsider who married into the Quartermaine name; I was born with it, so they will support me, both with their actions and with their bank accounts, when our divorce _does _get ugly. As for your family, when exactly was the last time you spent anytime with them? Oh that's right," he answered for her, "it was _my _birthday. If you fight me for custody, you will lose."

"Maybe so, but, then again," she contested, "maybe not. While I might have had affairs in the past, I was discreet. Can you say the same thing? While I might have had many different men in my bed over the years, none of them have spent time with our young, impressionable daughter. Can you say the same? And even if you would get custody of Riegel after I air all your dirty laundry in court, I would still have visitation – weeks a year to ruin your relationship with our daughter, weeks to poison her mind against you, weeks to mold her into the child she should become."

Pressing on, the mother of his only child continued. "And don't forget about the long hours you are forced to put in at the hospital because of your job while I have been a devoted, stay at home mom since the day Riegel was born. When the judge takes this into account, he might give us joint custody. That means I would have our daughter half the year, Jason – six out of the twelve months a year. With that amount of time with her, I could definitely groom her into the future Quartermaine heiress that she should be while still actively looking for a suitable, future match for her." Laughing maliciously, she taunted him. "And then there's the little fact that despite our ever changing, politically correct society, the courts still very much favor the mother. Imagine what would happen to your precious baby girl if I won full custody. Can you say hello boarding school?"

"You think you have everything figured out? You think that you know everything, don't you?"

"Of course not, dear," she feigned innocence and modesty, smiling at him sweetly. "I just know a hell of a lot more than you do." Pivoting around on her stiletto heels and marching out the door, she tossed one last remark back over her shoulder towards her husband. "Oh, and before I forget, thank you for the anniversary present. Since we won't be getting a divorce and I won't be able to meet your whore in court, you somehow managed to get me exactly what I wanted: a chance to meet my competition, a chance to size her up, and a chance to tell her precisely what I think of her cheap and vulgar self. Your stupidity and ineptitude continues to amaze me, Jason, so thank you. Thank you for proving my point for me; thank you for giving me the perfect anniversary present."

From a back storage room, Elizabeth could hear someone enter the gallery. Despite the fact that she was distracted, waiting for Jason to pick her up from work that afternoon with, hopefully, good news of his impending divorce, she knew that she needed to focus, that there were several more hours left to her work day, and that the customer who had just arrived deserved her full attention.

"Coming," she called out to them, pausing briefly before a mirror in the hallway which would lead her out into the gallery to check on her appearance, making sure that it wasn't too scattered. "I apologize," she announced as she made her way into the main room. The customer – a woman - was turned so that her back faced her, hiding her countenance from the brunette's view. "I was just wrapping up a painting that's getting picked up later today for another customer. How can I help…?" As the blonde turned around to confront her, the words fell away from the young artist's lips, leaving her stunned, apprehensive, and slightly timorous. There were only five people still living in the world that could make her feel that way, and one of them was standing less than twenty feet away from her.

"You," she breathed out, the slight hitch to her voice betraying her nerves.

"Lizzie," Sarah greeted her, sneering the childhood nickname she abhorred, knowing that it would make her angry. "I'd say that this was a pleasant surprise, but that wouldn't be true, and you were always the liar in the family."

"It's Elizabeth," she corrected her, steeling her back and straightening her shoulders in preparation for a battle with her half sister. "As for which one of us is the more proficient liar, that would be you. I just got caught while not even your parents could detect when you were lying straight to their faces."

Nodding her head in appreciation, the older woman sighed gratefully. "It is a talent, and it takes more finesse than you ever could manage."

"What are you doing here?" Not in the mood to toss pointed barbs back and forth with a sibling she didn't love and had never wanted anything to do with, the accountant got straight to the point. "How did you ever find me, Sarah?" However, before her sister could even answer, she saw the gift certificate in her hand, the gift certificate that could only have been purchased by Jason because it was the only unredeemed gift certificate they still had out, the gift certificate that Jason had purchased to give to his wife for their anniversary. "Oh my god."

"It's fitting, don't you think? From the moment we met, you always wanted everything that I had. You wanted my father's attention, my nanny's affection, my place in my family."

"I never wanted anything that was yours," Elizabeth argued, taking several threatening steps towards her older sibling. "All I wanted was to be wanted, to be loved."

But Sarah pressed on as if the brunette had not said a word. "And, now, here we are again. You're trying to take from me what's rightfully, legally mine – my husband and my daughter."

"Like you even really want them," the artist snapped back, accompanying her words with a furious glower. "You treat Jason with thinly veiled contempt and disdain. You ridicule him at every chance you get, you use him for his money and power, and you make a mockery of the vows you took with him years ago. And don't even get me started on your relationship with Sydney."

"It's Riegel," Sarah interrupted, correcting the younger woman.

"She prefers Sydney," Elizabeth countered, "and you would know that if you were any kind of mother, but you're not. You're just like Carolyn. You're cold and emotionally distant, and you use your child as a pawn in your games and schemes designed to achieve social supremacy. Congratulations, sister," the brunette mockingly lauded her sibling. "You're the perfect Hardy. I imagine you make Jeff, Carolyn, Stephen, and Audrey extremely proud."

"Something you've never been able to do," the wife and mother taunted, smiling wickedly at the accountant, "but we can just add that to Little Lizzie's long list of incompetence."

"I'd rather be loved by your husband and your daughter than have the support and approval of the people you consider your family."

Suddenly turning sober, Sarah nodded her head in agreement. "I'm sure you would. Unfortunately for you, you're not going to have that for much longer either."

"That's what you think," the shorter of the two women challenged, tilting her chin up at a proud, haughty angle. "I take it you haven't talked to Jason recently?"

"Actually, you're wrong," the older sibling disagreed. "We had a very enlightening conversation this morning… in his bedroom, and we came to an understanding."

"So you agreed to the divorce?"

"Of course not," Sarah dismissed the idea with a snide laugh. "I used my many powers of persuasion to make my husband understand that we would not be separating anytime soon and certainly not for the likes of you."

"You're lying," the accountant disputed, backing away from her sister and crossing her arms against her chest to ward off the hurt and pain the blonde's sexual innuendos and callous words caused inside of her.

"Am I?"

"Jason can't stand you, he loves me, and, most importantly, he wants you nowhere near his daughter."

"That all may be true, but did you honestly think his leaving me would be that easy? Oh, Lizzie," Sarah ridiculed. "Not even you are this naïve, are you? Haven't you learned yet that I always win, that I always get what I want? If our childhood taught you nothing else, surely it taught you that."

In that moment, the past came rushing back to the brunette in striking, haunting clarity. She saw herself ignored, criticized, and scorned by the very people who should have loved her. She saw herself handed off to nannies and disregarded as a heartbroken toddler who only wanted her Mommy and didn't understand why she wasn't there anymore. She saw herself pushed from one boarding school to another while Sarah and Steven remained at home with the father all three of them had in common. She saw herself excluded from family photos, lied about to family friends, and practically erased from the family history. She saw birthdays forgotten and hand-me-down clothes when her half siblings only wore the best money could buy. She saw a childhood and adolescence completely void of any kind of love or even kindness, and, with the memories, any confidence she had managed to build inside of herself disappeared with just a single conversation with her older sister. With that reminder, her self-protective shield of indifference and emotional unavailability was back full force, stronger perhaps than ever before because the cracks that Jason and Sydney, Sonny, Lily, and their children had caused in it had been mortared and bricked over once again.

"What do you want from me, Sarah? Why are you here?"

"Well, I came here initially to find out who exactly my husband was cheating on me with and to nip that little affair in the bud. Finding you and getting to remind you just how worthless you are, once again, was just an added bonus."

"Isn't it too bad for you then that I'm going to take away some of your fun."

"Excuse me," Sarah questioned incredulously.

Flippantly, Elizabeth walked away and started to straighten various things around the gallery while she talked. "You see, I have this rule that I live by. I never stay in one place, in one city for longer than a year. When a year's up, I move. I pick up my life, say goodbye to anything and anyone in my old home that once mattered to me, and I start all over again. It keeps me on my toes, and it keeps things from getting stale. I got to Port Charles in January, so, in just a few short weeks, I'm going to be leaving again – with or without your blessing, approval, or insistence."

"And what about Jason?"

"What about him," the artist countered, twirling around to observe her sibling with absolutely no reaction to her inquiry. "Jason's a part of my life in Port Charles. When I leave this city behind, I'll leave him behind, too."

"Just like that," the blonde wondered. The doubt she was feeling was evident in her tone.

In response, the younger woman snapped her fingers. "Just like that. Now, if you don't mind," she changed the subject, dismissing Sarah, "I have a lot of work to do. We have a big holiday party next week. I'd say see you then, but you, big sister, weren't important enough to make it onto our guest list. So, if you'll excuse me…"

"What about my gift certificate," the wife and mother protested, waving around the scrap of paper.

"One of my assistants will help you," Elizabeth answered, never deigning the blonde with a single glance. "I have better things to do."

With that, she flounced off, head held high, poised nose in the air, shoulders straight and unforgiving. A few moments later from the back room where she went to reign in her emotions, to grieve for the life she had wanted so badly but that had been taken away from her so easily, she heard the sister she had not seen in years leave the gallery, hoping it was the very last time she ever saw Sarah Hardy Quartermaine or any of her so called family members for that matter. Because of her pain, though, she never saw the tall, familiar figure lurking in the shadows – a figure who had overheard and listened to the entire conversation she had shared with her older sibling, a figure that was both astonished with the revelations the two women had divulged and destroyed by the brunette's pronouncement of her imminent departure from the city. If she had, the knowledge of his presence would have made her cry just that much harder.

But she hadn't noticed him.

However, what she did know of was the fact that, despite her thoughts to the contrary, things had not really changed in her life. Outside forces, mainly her family, were still controlling her life; they were still dictating the changes in her life, and, to Elizabeth in that moment, it seemed as if they always would be unless she went somewhere so far away, so foreign to them, they would never be able to find her again.

So, it looked as if she was moving again, as if she was going to have to find a new place to live, a new identity, and a new existence for herself. She knew that Sonny would help her, that, despite the fact that they would miss her presence in their lives, that her two friends, the closest things she had ever managed to find to real parents, would support and understand her decision. Although she would miss them, loneliness was preferred to constant reminders of a life she would never really be able to have in Port Charles, to constant reminders of Sydney, the little girl she had grown to love like her own, to constant reminders of Jason – the only man she had ever allowed herself to truly fall in love with. The only problem was that she was, once again, scared of change. Had she ever really stopped being afraid of it, or had she simply fooled herself into believing that she wasn't? After just a few minutes in her estranged sister's company, Elizabeth found herself doubting everything she had previously believed about herself, and it was a feeling she would do anything to make sure she never felt again… even if she had to do the unthinkable.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: With this post, I finish this story. Admittedly, I'm not really happy with this chapter, but, after losing half of it once, and then starting to rewrite it, and, finally, have a craptastic day, I'm sick of it. So, take it as it is and deal. I know I am. Oy with the poodles already!_

Charlynn**  
**

**Reinventing a Quartermaine**

**Chapter Eight  
The Law of Gravity - What Goes Up, Inevitably, Must Come Back Down**

Upon reflection, Elizabeth realized that she was a bad mother.

Not in the conventional sense, though, for she loved her child, she provided her with anything and everything she might need, and she encouraged her in all aspects of her little life, but she was also overly indulgent with her seven year old, treating her more as a best friend than a kid, and, unlike some parents, she always told her the truth... no matter what. While her own _father_and his family had practiced that same belief, they had been blunt with her out of a lack of love and affection; Elizabeth's honesty with her only child sprang forth from a need to both prepare and protect her from the world, to ensure that she didn't grow up with her head in the clouds where reality didn't exist, and she knew that, because she was the little girl's only parent, trust could not be an issue between them. Esmée needed to know that she could always count on her mother, and, if that meant sometimes being forced into telling her things Elizabeth felt slightly uncomfortable with, then so be it. After all, she was only human, and, due to losing her own mother at such a young age, she really didn't have a role model for when it came to raising and nurturing a child.

But they seemed to get along quite nicely. With just the two of them, they fit together well. They knew each other's personality quirks and could differentiate between their various shades of moods without trouble or breaking a sweat. Their life was very routine. They got up in the morning, got ready for their day, left the house to go to their respective jobs, Elizabeth's as Sonny's accountant at the island's hotel and casino and Esmée at the island's only school, a school completely paid for by the island's owner and provided for the children of his employees. When their days were over, Elizabeth picked up her only child from the school, and they went back to the hotel to spend a few hours in the art gallery located on the top floor there and to eat dinner before driving back to their beach side cottage where they lived in complete solitude. While her daughter would do her homework or play, Elizabeth would work on her own personal artwork. It was just the two of them, occasionally interrupted by the twice a year visiting Corinthos brood, and the two women could not imagine it any other way.

Sitting at the island in their kitchen, an island that was used for eating meals and finger painting instead of preparing and serving food, the Webbers shared breakfast, going about their morning routine without interruption or deviation. While conversation was optional, productivity was not. Sometimes, the two of them would finish up tasks from the night before that they had either forgotten about or set aside for a later date. At other times, Elizabeth would take advantage of the lull in their life to tell her little girl about her namesakes - her grandmother and her grandmother's favorite artist. And, though rare, the few spare minutes they had together before being forced to leave their little hideaway and enter the real world were broken by Esmée asking questions - questions about the past, questions about the present, and even questions about the future, encompassing every single area of her life except one - her_father_.

Like mother, like daughter, Elizabeth's relationship with her little girl's father had been brief. Though, unlike her own Mom, the accountant had not been in love with the man who had given her Esmée, she had accidentally gotten pregnant with the child after only spending a few nights with the man who, in the long run, really was nothing more than a veritable stranger to her. He came to the island on vacation, spent two weeks, and, by the time he left, Elizabeth had been ready to see him leave. Up until that point, she had avoided dating, but a woman could only last so long on her own without needing something or someone to hold her at night... even if they were just a substitute, poor at that, for someone else. Eight years without Jason had made the brunette slightly desperate, so, when the first attractive, attentive man came along, she jumped in feet first. While nothing had come of the relationship, it had managed to give her the one truly good thing she had managed to do in her life: her daughter, and, for that, Elizabeth could never regret those two weeks.

Upon learning of her pregnancy, she had contacted the man. Using some rather shady tactics of locating him, she informed him of his impending fatherhood and was relieved when he declined any role in their future child, be it boy or girl's, life. Esmée Degas Webber was born exactly eight months after the stranger had flown away from the island, slightly early but still healthy, and, from the moment the six pound, one ounce, perfect, tiny, beautiful little girl was placed in her arms, Elizabeth was never far from her side. Sometimes she thought that she knew her daughter better than she knew herself, and, with that much insight into the seven year old, she could read her only child pretty well, so she knew that something was on the precocious second grader's mind. When she was ready, she would bring the subject up with her mother, and the accountant had her suspicions that the much thought about question that morning would be concerning her little girl's parentage. After all, it was time to broach that particular subject.

Perched confidently in her stool, she watched as her daughter studiously ate her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Just like her, Esmée was not a fan of traditional breakfast food, but, because neither of them had any kitchen skills whatsoever, they resorted mainly to sandwiches for breakfast. However, Elizabeth did make sure that her only child took a vitamin every morning, drank her fair share of orange juice and milk, and, thanks to the chefs at the hotel, the little girl took a well balanced meal to school everyday and ate a proper dinner every night. That didn't mean, though, that the mother of one didn't allow her daughter some vices, and, as she watched her consume her breakfast, she witnessed one of them, one of the two traits Esmée had apparently inherited from her absentee _father_.

For some reason beyond the single mother's understanding, her only child liked coffee. While she still couldn't really stomach the strong, acrid beverage, Esmée would drink it every day, with every meal, and even right before bed, the caffeine having absolutely no effect upon her body. Now, Elizabeth wasn't that indulgent with her. She took her little girl's pediatrician's advice into serious consideration, limiting the seven year old to one cup of joe every morning, but, as she sipped from her own coffee mug, filled to the brim with hot chocolate, she had to smile in amusement. If nothing else, her child was unique, and, no matter what the doctor said, she wasn't about to wipe her daughter clean of every one of her bad habits. In Elizabeth's opinion, perhaps because of her own upbringing, bad habits bred character, made a person interesting, and her daughter was going to need both a strong and captivating personality. The second trait her little girl possessed that did not come Elizabeth's gene pool was also fully on display as the second grader took another drink of her plain, black coffee. She was left handed.

"Mama?"

And, like she was prepared for, the questions were arriving. "Yes, baby?"

Instead of meeting her mother's gaze, Esmée stared down into her cup, the swirling depths of java seemingly too interesting for her to look away from. "Can I ask you something?"

"May I," Elizabeth corrected her gently. "But, yes. You know that you can ask me anything." Reiterating her statement, the painter waited for her daughter to glance up, for their identical indigo orbs to meet and lock upon one another. "Anything. Always."

"So," the nervous seven year old hedged, biting her lip. It was one of the many traits she had either inherited or picked up from her only present parent. "About my Dad... I do have one, right?"

Very seriously, the brunette adult replied, "well, most earthlings do. Unless you're an alien, which, let me tell you, the doctor's forget to mention when they removed you from my body..."

"Mama," her only child giggled, the mood surrounding them instantly lightening just as Elizabeth had wanted it to. "Be serious."

"Alright," she easily agreed. "Of course, you have a father, Esmée."

"Then where is he? Who is he? What does he do?" It seemed as if once the flood of questions broke through the dam restraining them, the inquiring words simply spilled forth from her little girl's lips, and the single mother knew that only answers would be able to curb her second grader's curiosity. "Does he know about me? Does he want to see me? Will I ever see him? Are we alike at all? He likes going to museums, too, doesn't he? What about his family? Does he have any other kids? Would they like..."

"Alright, stop right there, missy," the accountant playfully ordered her daughter, holding up her hand as if she were directing traffic. "Right there's enough questions to last us the entire drive to the hotel. Climb down off your stool," she instructed the seven year old. "I'll put our coffee cups in the dishwasher while you run and grab your book bag and my briefcase, okay?"

"Sure, Mama."

It only took them two minutes to become ready to leave for the day. Living on a tropical island meant that they never had the hassle of adding layers and ridiculous looking winter gear to combat the snow, ice, and unreasonably chilly weather that usually came in most other climates, and even rain was an oddity, meaning they didn't have to worry about umbrellas or rain galoshes, matching yellow, rubber coats or leaving the house five minutes earlier than normal just in case a storm managed to flood a road. By the time they were both buckled into the car, Esmée was practically bouncing in her seat due to excitement, and Elizabeth could only grin wistfully. While her daughter deserved to have the father of every little girl's dreams, with the man who had given the painter her only child, it just had not been possible, but that didn't mean that Elizabeth didn't ever wonder what it would be like to be that perfect, tripartite, nauseatingly happy family. However, it just wasn't feasible, and she was confident that, despite some initial disappointment, her only child would be able to accept and even see the good points of it perpetually being only her and her mother.

"So, your Dad, huh," she initiated as they pulled out of the driveway and turned onto the one main road of the island that would take them towards town, the hotel, and, eventually, Esmée's school. "Well, I met him over eight years ago when he came to the island for a vacation. We dated, he left, I had you, but he doesn't live around here, and his life and his job, which, by the way, since you asked, is a bodyguard for Uncle Sonny, make it so that he can't live here with us. Plus, although he loves you in his own way, he wasn't ready to be a father, and that was okay, because I was more than ready to be a Mommy. He lives his own life far away from here, and, you and I, we live our life here together, just the two of us. As far as I know," Elizabeth mentally went through her daughter's list of questions as she answered them, knowing she would forget one or two but, consciously, not trying to, "he doesn't have any other children, he's not married, and most, if not all, of his family have already passed away, but, no matter what, if they're alive or dead, missing you from afar or watching you from above, I know that they love you. I mean," the single mother scoffed, rolling her eyes and making her second grader laugh, "how could they not? You're exactly like me... and EVERYONE loves me."

"Nuh uh, Mama," Esmée argued, still smiling. "Kate didn't like you."

"Well, Kate was a big dork," the accountant stated without hesitation or doubt. "Did I tell you that I fired her?"

"Good!"

"I know," Elizabeth agreed with her only child. "The only bad thing is that now I have to find someone new to manage the art gallery. In fact, I'm interviewing someone this afternoon, and you know how much I _love_conducting interviews."

"It'll be okay, Mama," her seven year old assured her. "I think you'll like this one, that you'll hire them."

"Oh, and why do you think that?"

"I don't know," Esmée admitted, her little brow furrowing in thought just like her mother's did. "I just have this feeling right here, you know," she asked, pointing towards her little belly before smiling. "I hope it's a girl," her daughter continued, suddenly swept away in her own little world. "And, then, we can be friends with her. She can come over for sleep overs and go to the beach with us. What do you think, Mama?"

"We'll see," the painter commented, slightly distracted herself by her little girl's remarks. "Well see."

She should have known.

Everything was just perfect, too perfect. She was a recent graduate, twenty-two, and had no previous work experience, but, yet, she still managed to land an interview with a respectable art gallery. When thousands of college students went months, years even, without finding a job in their desired field, she had an interview, thanks to her uncle, lined up before the diploma was even placed in her hand. And it wasn't as if she was overly intelligent or had that certain something special, the ability to find a future Renoir in a rubbage can or a another Pollack in a pile of potato peels. While she might have loved art, so did all the other hundreds of recent graduates from the around the country who weren't getting interviews at the Carribean island art gallery. Not only would she have a wonderful job if she was hired, but she'd also be living in paradise. And that was why everything, the sheer flawlessness of the job offer, reeked of one very powerful, very stubborn, very sneaky Sonny Corinthos.

Growing up, she knew that her _Uncle Sonny _owned his own island, one frequented only by those truly wealthy and in his inner circle of friends. No one went to the Oceanside paradise without a Black AmEx and his permission, and, when they were there, her father's employer offered them any single luxury amenity they could crave - swimming, golfing, shopping, horse racing, gambling, yachting, antiquing, and even the perusal of a well rounded, well stocked art gallery that housed both famous pieces of sculpture and world renowned paintings and the work of local artists. It was the best of both worlds for art enthusiasts. If she got the job, she'd be able to help develop new clients and also continue to support those already established.

Sitting in the lavish office she was shown into ten minutes prior to wait for the person who was to be interviewing her, Sid Morgan realized she was on the much often discussed but never visited private island her uncle used for both business and pleasure. Why she and her father had never traveled there, she wasn't sure. Whenever she had mentioned it growing up, Sonny had always shrugged off the idea, instead suggesting that her father take her to various vacation spots in Europe, Africa, Australia, and Asia. In fact, the only place she had not been allowed to go to was the private island her Dad's employer owned, but, after years of being denied, she stopped asking, and, until that very moment, the island's actual existence had been pushed to the back of her mind.

But, now, here she was, at Sonny's instance. He was the one who had found her the job article, he was the one who insisted that she send her resume in for consideration despite the fact that the ad had requested more experience that she possessed, and he had been the one who had volunteered his private jet for her trip, insisting that she take him up on his offer because, quite simply, with a dimpled grin to boot, he had a good feeling about her upcoming interview. He thought that it was _the one_, that magical, amazing, perfect job college graduates only dreamt about but knew they'd never find or land. And it was because of his insistence that she knew he had played a hand in getting her the interview in the first place. However, she was there, and it was, technically, her opportunity to blow, so she was going to make the most of it, even if she did get the job because of her uncle and not because of the credentials she brought to the table. The only thing she was wondering about was just why he wanted her to have this particular job so much.

He had always been protective towards her, treating her practically like he did his own children. She had gone to the best schools, been given every opportunity in the world because he had insisted that she not suffer because of her parents' inability to come to a mutual agreement, and he had always tried to keep her as close to him and the rest of _her family _as he couldeven when she was going to school. Yes, he had practically bribed her into going to NYU which was just a subway ride away from her home in the Bronx, the home she and her father had occupied since she was seven and they had escaped from her mother, changed their names, and opened a free clinic with the financial backing of her uncle, and a couple hours outside of Port Charles, but who was she to turn down a free scholarship and an apartment in Manhattan. So, why was he suddenly pushing her to move thousands of miles away from New York? It didn't make sense, the job was too perfect, and he was up to something, but it shouldn't have surprised her, because Sonny Corinthos did nothing without an ulterior motive. All she had to do was figure out what exactly that motive was.

Startling her from her silent thoughts, the office door behind her opened, admitting the person she assumed would be interviewing her. The strange thing was that she had no clue who that person would be. Man or woman? Mid 30's or early 60's? Blonde, brunette, or redhead? Friendly or cower-in-her-sensible-yet-still-attractive-heels scary? There was no name for her to look up, not even a set of initials or a title she could address the interviewer by, and the sense of mystery surrounding the anonymous person reeked of her uncle's doing. Sid just wasn't sure if it was for security reasons that he kept the identity of his employees so secretive or if it was a part of his mysterious master plan for sending her to the island, getting her a job interview there, and setting her up. Whatever the reason, she just hoped that nothing would happen that she wouldn't be prepared for.

"I'm sorry I'm late," the person - a woman - apologized. Although she didn't turn around, the twenty-two year old could hear the tardy lady moving around the spacious office, presumably getting herself settled in. "My daughter and I ended up running late this morning, and, when that happens, my whole schedule gets thrown off. You haven't been waiting long, have you?"

"A few minutes," the blonde haired, blue eyed recent college graduate hedged, not wanting to outright lie to the woman who might become her future employer but also not wanting to make her feel guiltier. "It was good though - gave me an opportunity to clear my head and get everything organized."

"Well, good then. I'm glad one of us is ready for this interview." Finally taking her seat, the accountant smiled kindly and held out her hand for greeting. "I'm Elizabeth Webber."

"Sid Morgan."

She was surprised that she was capable of words at that point, but, luckily, it didn't seem to matter, because, once she started, her potential employer didn't seem to know how to stop. Apparently, many things, beside the fact that she now had a child, had changed about the brunette. The woman before her had entered her life fifteen years before on a whirlwind and disappeared in a similar fashion, forever altering her childhood, and, although their association was brief, a mere few months, the twenty-two year old knew she would never forget the woman sitting before her. Not only had she made quite the impression upon her, helping a then seven year old little girl find a love for art, but she had also made a drastic impression upon Sid's father, eventually urging him to change his entire lifestyle starting with leaving Sid's mother. It was the best, if not the messiest decision, her Dad had ever made, but she wasn't sure the woman before her had any idea it had even happened.

It was obvious that she didn't recognize her in return, which wasn't a surprise seeing as how she no longer wore her hair in pigtails or skipped everywhere that she went, but she would have known the forty-something year old in front of her anywhere. Not only had she physically not changed that much, but her voice was still the same, and her eyes, those one of a kind deep blue eyes, still occasionally popped up in her dreams or her memory at the oddest of times.

Seeing Elizabeth again, Sid was immediately filled with a multitude of questions she had practically no hope of getting the answers to. Had she been living on the island the entire time? Was that why her uncle had been so adamant that they not visit, and was that why, all of a sudden, he had suggested that she apply for a job and then interview for one that was located on the island? Did she have any idea what her Dad had been through after she simply ran away from Port Charles without a note or a word to let him know that she was alright or where she was going? And what did she mean about her daughter? How old was the little girl, who was her father, and was she married to the man?

In fact, there was only one thing that Sid Morgan knew for sure. Sonny Corinthos was good - good at keeping secrets, good at manipulation, and even better at sending her into impossible situations that had the potential to shatter and then completely rebuild her entire life into something better, but, obviously, even he had his limits. While it might have taken him fifteen years to break his promise of silence, he had finally caved, revealing the location of a woman her Dad had been quietly searching for since the moment she had left him in the first place. Why Sonny had changed his mind and what made him do so, she had no idea, but she would definitely have to thank him for it... after she got the job she was currently applying for and after she told her Dad about the very interesting discovery she had made while on her uncle's island.

And, naively, she had thought her life would calm down, become more stable, after she graduated from college. Apparently, she still had a few things left to learn.

There was something off about Sid Morgan, but Elizabeth just could not figure out what it was. The girl was certainly smart, had a good eye, and was personable, and, despite the fact that she had no previous experience, the mother of one recognized a little of herself in the twenty-two year old and had decided to go with her for the job. Still, even though the interview had ended hours before, and even though she was supposed to be sitting down, relaxing, and watching television with her daughter, she couldn't get her mind to stop. It was almost as if she already knew her from somewhere.

The only problem was that, since she had given birth to Esmée, she had rarely traveled away from the island. Already having seen the world, vacationing, especially when she lived on a tropical paradise, didn't appeal to her, and she was waiting to travel again when her daughter was old enough to enjoy it with her. That meant, though, that there was little to no opportunity for her to have met Sid, but, despite her rationality, Elizabeth couldn't shake the feeling that, at one point, the newly hired gallery manager had been important to her.

Giving her a respite from the perpetual loop of thoughts running through her mind, the doorbell rang. While her seven year old stayed planted on the sofa in the living room, she got up to answer the door, wondering who it was coming over so late but not worried about it. The island was secure, and, although she was Sonny's accountant, her life had been relatively safe over the years... even when she insisted upon carrying around a semi-automatic handgun. Swinging open the front door, the painter rolled her eyes at her own ideas, convincing herself that the visitor was probably there to borrow a cup of sugar or to exchange a piece of mail that had accidentally been delivered to the wrong house - any and all options very suburban and very boring.

Unfortunately, she had never been that much of a clairvoyant.

"That stinking rat bastard!"

At the same time that she spoke, the tall, muscular, blue eyed, still very handsome man despite his fifty year old age yelled as well. "What the hell did you mean when you said you had a daughter, and, as for me being a rat bastard," he addressed her comment, seeing as how she finished speaking first, granting him the floor even if only by default, "I wasn't the one who skipped down without saying anything. One minute, we're together and I'm planning on leaving my wife, and, the next thing I know, you're gone, and Sonny won't tell me a damn thing."

"Well, obviously he changed his mind, because you're here!"

"Sonny didn't tell me anything," Jason contradicted her, narrowing his gaze. "Sid did."

"Wait," the single mother demanded. "Sid stands for Sydney, doesn't it... as if Riegel Sydney Quartermaine?"

He scoffed. "You're deduction skills amaze me. If the island ever needs a detective, Sonny needs to look no further than his accountant. But, yes, they are one in the same. With Sonny's help, we completely changed our identities when I left Sarah. Divorce by abandonment, and, because she couldn't find us, she couldn't get her hands on my daughter."

Exasperated and slightly annoyed not to mention shocked, Elizabeth demanded, "what are you doing here; what do you want from me?"

"I want some answers."

"I'm afraid my life is none of your business, and it hasn't been for fifteen years now, so just turn around, go back to the hotel to pack your bags, and leave me alone. And, for that matter, tell your daughter to do the same thing, too. I'm sorry, because she seems like a really nice and talented young woman, but I can't have her working for me. It would be too awkward."

"You mean too much of a constant reminder," the doctor taunted, making the younger woman narrow her gaze in frustration. "Look, Elizabeth," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I didn't come here to fight with you, and, although I didn't want this to seem like an interrogation..."

"Which if does," she insisted, interrupting him.

"... Before we can really talk, I need some answers."

"Why?"

"Why," the fifty year old parroted. "Why? Maybe because I still miss you after all these years."

His admission sobered her quickly, making the ire and the animosity she had been feeling disappear. Astonishing herself, the mother of one found herself admitted, "I miss you, too."

"Then talk to me," he pleaded. "Tell me about yourself."

"What, here?"

"No, let's go somewhere," Jason suggested. Suddenly smiling, he watched her for a moment before nodding towards her driveway. Although it was dark, she could clearly see the seductively powerful, leather and chrome, sleek motorcycle parked there. She hadn't been on a bike since her very last ride with the man standing before her, and, in that moment, she realized just how much she missed it, how much she missed the rush and the excitement, the sheer strength and deceptiveness of the wind. "Let's go for a ride."

"I'd really like to," the artist confessed, the longing written plainly on her still very beautiful face. "But I can't. Esmée, my daughter, my seven year old daughter, is inside, and I can't leave her here by herself, and she certainly couldn't fit on the bike with us, and I don't see a sidecar."

"And her Dad..."

"Very smooth," Elizabeth quipped, unable to not smirk at his obvious ploy for information. "But, to answer your question, he's not here. He's never here. We're not together, she doesn't know him, and it's very unlikely that she ever will."

"Alright," the physician stated, mulling over her words. "Well, what would you say if I told you that I had a babysitter who could stay with her while we went out? Would you say yes then?"

"Jason that's impossible. I live on a small, private island which means that there are very few teenagers of the right age and mind set who can watch my daughter, not to mention the fact that they all have their own very busy lives to lead. They can't just come over at the drop of a hat when I snap my fingers."

"She's not a teenager; she's twenty-two."

"How long have you been here," the brunette asked rhetorically. "I can't believe you had enough time to scrounge up someone that old who has no life."

"Hey," a third person admonished, joining there group from off to the side. "I resent that. I've only been here for less than twenty-four hours. I haven't had a chance to make myself a life here, but, give me a couple of weeks, and you will have to start pre-booking my babysitting services," Sid teased, waving slightly towards Elizabeth. "Hi. My Dad thought you might need my help tonight, and I'll admit that I'm kind of looking forward to meeting your little girl." Before the single mother could find a chance to respond, the younger woman just pressed on. "And, don't worry. I do have some experience with children. Lola and I used to watch her younger siblings and the guards' kids when we were in high school. As long as your daughter doesn't wear a diaper still, I should be fine."

"She's been potty trained now for five years."

"Whew," the twenty-two year old mockingly sighed, wiping non-existent perspiration from her forehead. "That's a relief. "Now," she changed the topic, pushing on her father's shoulders, "get out of here. I don't want to see either of you again until at least midnight, preferably later, and, if you don't insist upon calling off from work tomorrow," she threatened Elizabeth with a pointed stare, "well, I'll just be forced to call your boss."

Before the accountant knew what was happening, her front door had been closed in her face... and locked... and she was standing beside Jason and his rented bike while he handed her a helmet. The man she had loved and left fifteen years before was there, in her life, again. He was taking her for a ride, he was waiting to hear everything and anything she would be willing to tell him about her life, and she knew he was prepared to return the favor. When she left Port Charles, she had been scared, too scared to even give Jason a chance to choose her. After constant disappointment in life from the people who were supposed to be the ones to care about her the most, she had simply given up instead of fighting for what she wanted, and, although she was, once again, scared beyond belief, there would be no running this second time. She liked her life on the island, Esmée didn't deserve to be uprooted and taken somewhere else simply because her mother couldn't hack even the possibility of a healthy, adult relationship, and, perhaps most importantly, Elizabeth realized that she wanted to see where talking to Jason could lead her... even if it went nowhere further than a friendship with her former lover.

But then his hand brushed her chin as he gently pushed her shaking hands aside to fasten her helmet for her, and then she wrapped her arms around him as she climbed on the bike, and then she felt him relax into her embrace, and she knew. Despite the years, despite the lack of communication and the practically insurmountable distance separating them, and despite her own fears, the attraction between them was just as strong as it had always been. Suddenly, it didn't matter what he was doing back in her life, or how it had happened, or even why Sonny had waited fifteen years to orchestrate their reunion; all that mattered was that he wasn't Jason Quartermaine anymore, respected pediatrician, her sister's husband, society's golden boy. Instead, he was Jason Morgan - just a doctor, just a father, and just exactly the kind of man she and her daughter needed in their lives.

Symbolically, even if he was the only one who had changed his name, they both had reinvented themselves over the years, but, underneath everything, they were still just Jason and Elizabeth - an illogical, impossible, insanely perfect match, and who was she to argue with that, with them? With that thought in mind, she held onto him as tightly as she could, the bike accelerating underneath them, the wind whipping through their hair.

He was finally home, with her, where he belonged.


End file.
